Searching for Anne
by mavors4986
Summary: Sequel to The Doctor's Wife. Dramatic AU, what would have happened if Anne and Gilbert had struggled and succumbed to the pressure of fitting in, rather than being smiley and complacent?
1. The empty man

**Dear readers,**

 **Thank you so much for your encouragement and support throughout my first story, A Doctor's Wife:**

s/12172184/1/The-Doctor-s-Wife **.**

 **Here is the sequel, Searching For Anne. For those who haven't read A Doctor's Wife yet, I should warn you that this AU is quite a stretch, and takes a deep turn far away from LMM books and all the film versions, and is purely hypothetical. If that upsets or offends you, this fiction will likely not be to your taste. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy! As always, I will make it a point to answer to all your messages and reviews in timely fashion. Thank you for reading!**

The train chugged along the tracks, jostling its passengers in the cars. The rail hadn't been repaired in quite a while, and personal effects as well as small children who couldn't quite sit properly had to be held carefully.

One passenger remained totally undisturbed by the turbulence. A tall man, not so old, whose well-pressed fancy travel attire did not match his exhausted face. His skin had an odd tinge of gray to it, unfocused eyes gazed absently ahead without seeing, and he'd missed a spot down by his neck while shaving. To the other passengers, he seemed to be empty, a shell of a man.

"Next stop, Kingsport! Kingsport, ladies and gentleman!" announced the conductor as he walked through the aisle, jolting the empty man from his outer state of inertia. He stood up, got off the train and turned left, something he'd done in this very place countless times. This time, though, he'd checked no luggage, and so he proceeded to the exit of the station and hired a ride. The familiar streets unfolded before him, but his eyes remained as vacant as they had been on the train.

The ride was short and uneventful. He hadn't even realized they'd arrived until the driver turned to tell him the fare. Shelling out a few coins, he paid up and got out. Entered the building. Walked down the hallway he hadn't seen in years, but still knew by heart. Stopped in front of the split staircase.

He'd mostly gone up the stairs, the ones leading to surgery, recovery rooms, doctors' offices, places he'd usually spend most of his time. He hadn't spent much time downstairs at all, but he knew what was there. Supplies, the laboratory, and...

His stomach lurched. He felt nauseous, but there was nothing left in him to come up. He closed his eyes, took a shaky breath, tried to gain some composure. He had to do this.

He took the stairs one by one, going down until he reached the ground floor. Every step brought him closer to his worst nightmare. Too soon, he found himself in front of the room he dreaded. The door was open, and an older man in a white coat rushed to meet him.

"Gilbert. You made it." They shook hands: the older man held on to the cold, clammy grip instead of letting go.

"Dr. Zimmers, I got Scott's call and came as soon as I could."

"I'm so sorry, son. This part of the job is never easy, but it's always worse when it involves a friend." He sighed. "Would you like a moment? Should I send for some coffee?"

The younger man shook his head. The doctor nodded understandingly. "Right. Well, if you're ready, let's go this way." They went to the table; the older man looked up. "Alright?"

No, he wasn't alright. Nothing was alright. But he nodded anyway. The doctor lifted the sheet.

The woman was in her thirties, probably. Slender. Red hair. High brow. Dainty nose. Arched eyebrows.

The younger man breathed in, exhaled, and breathed in again.

"It's not Anne."

"I'm sorry?" the doctor asked, taken aback.

"It almost looks like her, but it's not. The eyebrows, the nose - they're not Anne's. It isn't her."


	2. On The Road

Jack entered the recovery room. There were only two other patients, in beds at the opposite end of the room, but the curtains around Anne's bed had been drawn shut for privacy all the same. He pulled it open to find her sitting up, her hands neatly folded over her lap. She looked up at him, her expression remote.

"How are you feeling?" he asked gently.

"Fine, thank you." Her voice was timid and barely audible, like a small child's.

"I've arranged for us to leave tomorrow," he told her. "We'll head North. There's a doctor not far from Ottawa, who specializes in...well, he's agreed to meet with us. He might be able to help."

This earned him no response, but a slow blink on her part. He'd imagined the prospect of leaving the hospital would cheer her up - he certainly was looking forward to getting as far from this place as possible.

"We'll leave early in the morning," he went on. "I'll come as soon as I can to pick you up. You can get some more rest in the buggy, if you'd like."

At last, this had elicited a nod from her. A small sign she'd heard him speak.

"Well. I better go - to get things ready for our departure. Get a good night's sleep." He gave her a small smile and laid his hand on hers before closing the curtains behind him. He found Dr. Pewterson at the other side of the room, reviewing charts and issuing quiet orders to a couple of nurses.

"Doctor," said Jack when he'd reached them. The doctor dismissed the nurses and turned to him.

"Mr. Garrison. You're set on leaving tomorrow, then?"

Jack nodded. "I'll come for her at 8 o'clock."

"You made your sentiments regarding asylums clear to me, but I must impress on you that in denying her the constant surveillance she needs, you may end up doing her irreparable harm. I'm not convinced that you're aware of how much attention she will require, nor are you familiar with the measures one must take in order to keep her from attempting this highly unnatural act again."

"I can assure you that I know what I am doing. She will not harm herself again under my watch, I'll make sure of it. As for her wellbeing, Doctor, I can assure you that she will be well cared for, in a place that will heal her and help her, in lieu of calling her pain unnatural or immoral."

Dr. Pewterson frowned. "It seems you've made your choice. Nonetheless, here is the contact information for my colleague at St. Augustine's, should you ever change your mind."

Jack stared at the slip of paper the man held out, and considered yanking it, shredding it to bits and throwing them in his face. Instead, he accepted it with a nod, folded it and stashed it in his pocket. "Thank you, Doctor," he gritted out. "For saving Anne's life." The doctor nodded, and Jack dismissed himself before he could do something stupid.

l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l

Gilbert sat at the hotel's reception desk, placing his third phone call.

His first call had been to Green Gables. He'd never heard Marilla so fragile, and had chosen to spare her the details of his visit, telling her simply that he had been following a false lead. This still proved to be too much for the woman in her frail state, and he'd needed several minutes to get a hold of himself afterwards. After breathing deeply several times, he shook himself, vowed to call her more often, and went on to contact a colleague, asking him to cover his urgent appointments and house calls over the next few days.

That had been easier. Now, he waited to be connected for the third time.

"This is the Blythe's residence," came Diana's breathless voice.

"It's Gilbert." He knew what she would think next, and spoke quickly to dispel the worst imaginable scenarios. "I just got back from the hospital. The body wasn't Anne's."

"Oh, thank the Lord," she whispered tearfully. He let her sniffle for a while, then asked how his boys were. "Oh, they're fine. They like horsing around with Freddie. Jem's been very indulgent with Small Anne, even though it seems as though she's trying to become his shadow, by the way she follows him about."

Gilbert gave a small smile at the thought of his son being patient with the little girl with a character oddly similar to her namesake's. While Jem might resemble his mother on the outside, his inner workings matched his father's. An uncomplicated boy, who enjoyed others' attention and affection, but didn't seem to crave it the way Walter did. Jem was independent and self-sufficient, just as Gilbert had been when he was little.

"I'm really grateful you were able to take them in," he said into the telephone.

"Of course. I'm their godmother, Gil." She sighed. "Will you stay in Kingsport, then?"

"There's no point. The doctor who'd contacted me said he'd heard through the grapevine about..." he tapered off, unable to follow the thought through, and cleared his throat. "Anyway, when his colleague mentioned the description of the body and where it was found, he called me." He sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly. "He asked me if I want to put out a notice on the hospital circuit, for all of Ontario."

"It might not be a bad idea," Diana commented prudently.

"I told him I'd think about it. The truth is, I don't know if I could survive another false alert like this. And if it's not..."

"I know," said Diana quietly. They shared a moment of painful silence together. The return of the clerk to the desk made Gilbert snap out of it.

"I missed the last train out today, so I'll have to stay overnight. I might pay a visit to a former colleague tomorrow before heading out to the station. Diana-" He hesitated, not sure how to bring up his thought. "I...I've been thinking of going home." He held his breath, waiting for her reply.

"Alright, I'll bring the boys over the day after tomorrow."

"No, I mean- alone." He swallowed. "I want - I think I need some time. Alone." The silence was now tense: he braced himself for an onslaught of shaming words.

"Would you like me to keep the boys in Avonlea?"

Gilbert sighed in relief. "Could you? I hate to burden you, it's not as though you and Fred don't already have your hands full-"

"Gil. It's fine, of course it's fine. We'll be happy to keep them as long as you need. Between my parents, yours, my sister and all the grandmothers of Avonlea, they won't want for attention. You do what you need to do. And Gilbert?"

"Yes?"

"Find Anne."


	3. Reasonable proposition

Jack fidgeted restlessly in his seat. He longed for something to read, or even to review. It felt as though all he'd been doing these past few days was lurk about and wait, and he was weary of it.

At least this wasn't a hospital, he reflected. He had been so eager to leave that horrid place behind, he had barely taken notice of the fact that Anne hadn't uttered a word during the 18 hour drive. Upon their arrival in Kemptville, he'd found the right address, where they were welcomed by the man who'd been expecting them.

Once inside, a housekeeper retrieved their coats and hats, and they followed Dr. Lebrun into his sitting room. Over tea, the doctor had immediately gotten to business.

"You've come quite far to seek me out, I think it only fair not to delay things any longer. Mr. Garrison, you've read my articles, so you must be aware that while I am a doctor, my methods are highly unorthodox. I am a specialist of the mind, and the treatments I offer are based on speech and observation. Only in the most extreme situations would I ever consider prescribing medication, to be administered under my strict supervision. Are we clear on this much so far?"

Jack nodded. Anne simply stared vacantly, her tea left untouched. Dr. Lebrun did not seem phased by this. He continued: "Then I would suggest an evaluation. We will have a consultation, after which I will recommend treatment, and we can begin once consent is given all around. Does this sound reasonable?"

"Honestly, Doctor, this is the most reasonable proposition I've heard so far."

"Very well, then, Mr. Garrison, we will be back in a while. I can have Hilda brew another pot of tea while you wait." The men had shaken hands, and the doctor had steered Anne to his office, leaving Jack alone once again to wait. His sixth sense had told him that they would be fine.

Left to his own devices, he wondered what type of evaluation was going on.

o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:o:

Anne stared at the man in front of her. He must have been in his fifties, perhaps even his sixties, and disturbingly resembled the illustration of a german St Nicholas (she'd seen it in a children's book she'd offered Little Fred on his sixth birthday). A headful of white cotton hair with a moustache and beard to match, pronounced nose and rounded cheekbones, average yet imposing frame of a body. One of his legs was casually propped over the other; his elbows rested on the arms of his chair, his hands steepled in front of his mouth. He stared at her with clear blue eyes that hid under impressively bushy eyebrows, and seemed to see right through her.

Eventually, the silence began to unnerve her. "Am I-" she cleared her throat, which had gone rusty from lack of use. "Are we supposed to be doing something?"

Dr. Lebrun uncrossed his legs and straightened up in his seat. "What would you like to do?" he asked, his voice oddly neutral.

"I thought - you would be examining me. Or something."

"Very well. How do you propose I should do that?"

"I don't know! _You_ 're the doctor," she pointed out, somewhat irritated.

"Anne - may I call you Anne?" She nodded: he continued. "Anne, do you know what kind of doctor I am?"

"You're a doctor of the mind," she supplied.

"That's right. I deal with your inner workings. I look inside your body, not within it. No stethoscope or tongue depressor is going to reveal to me anything I would need to know. My field of expertise lies beyond the physical: it's your thinking, your imagination, your emotions, that I need to see."

She fixed him curiously. "If you'll allow me to say so, you are the most unusual doctor I have ever met. And coming from me, that is something."

"Met a lot of doctors, have you?"

"I-..." She blinked in wonder. How had he done it? Since she'd woken up in the hospital, she had been unable to string more than three consecutive words to a man who had been more than a friend in times of duress. Yet, here she was, words tumbling out of her mouth as though mind doctors were the most natural topic of conversation, and with a stranger she'd only met minutes ago! To make matters worse, he was now smiling in earnest.

"I think that you are ready to begin. We've found our first key: doctors. Tell me, Anne, was it your husband, or your father who was one?"

She ought to have been seething, but couldn't help being impressed. Squashing her amusement, she bit out: "My husband. I never knew my father."

"There is our second key - we will get to your upbringing issues later."

"Issues?" she repeated indignantly.

"Well, was it not a source of problems in your life?"

"No! I mean, yes, but- it's most certainly not a topic for polite conversation!" She wondered if he could see vapor rising from her ears.

"And a reluctance to discuss. Family seems not only to be our second key, it is the central one as well."

"I HAVE NO FAMILY!" she bellowed. The shock that she felt at her own outburst made her blood stop cold in her veins, and she thought she might freeze. It took tremendous efforts to kick herself back in place. "Had. I meant 'had'. I 'had' no family. Well, I did, I just wasn't- not when-..." Flustered, her face was now too warm, her voice trembled, her fingers shook. "...I _do_ have family. Now. But not before- well, everybody has family, but...and now that I've gone and...Oh, I am the worst..."

The doctor held out a handkerchief to her, which she accepted gratefully to hastily wipe at her eyes and nose.

"I'm here to help you, Anne," he said gently. "But I can only do so if you want to be helped."

She looked up at him desperately. "I do," she whispered. "Please. I really do wish for help."

His smile returned. "Then I believe I can help you. You may freshen up while I have a word with Mr. Garrison, and we shall begin our sessions tomorrow."


	4. Searching Within

While the fields scrolled by, Gilbert started to formulate a plan. The jostling of the train as it picked up speed fed his newfound energy, which had originated upon his waking up at dawn withe the knowledge that Anne was alive.

What a fool he had been to believe, even for a moment, that it could have been her lying in morgue. He would know if she had died: distant as they might have grown, they were still spiritually bound. If Anne were no longer in this world, he would feel it.

But she was, and she was somewhere. And he was going to find her. How, though, was the question. She wasn't in Avonlea: were it the case, she would have gone to Marilla or Diana. His former Kingsport classmates with whom he'd just visited this morning had neither seen nor heard from her, but had offered to place calls to their own colleagues in the vicinity. Gil supposed the next logical step would be to reach out to Phil, Priss and Stella. Contact with them had been sparse, to the point where Gilbert couldn't remember when their letters had tapered off.

A memory entered his mind:

 _He was heading over to Patty's Place on a Friday evening, as he had done countless times. He knocked at the door and straightened the collar of his shirt under his jacket as he waited. It was Stella who'd opened the door._

 _"Oh, Gilbert, I was hoping you'd turn up!" she said in manner of greeting, stepping aside to let him in._

 _"Today's Friday - was Anne not expecting me? I thought we had a study-" His response was cut short by angry screams coming from upstairs. Hysteria made the words undistinguishable, but he could tell beyond doubt that one of the voices was Anne's._

 _"They've been at it since Aunt Jimsie left for tea," explained Stella, taking his jacket and cap, urging him further into the house. "Neither Priss nor I have been able to get a word in, let alone break up the argument. Maybe you can talk them down from their tizzy, because we certainly can't."_

 _Curious, he let Stella urge him to the bottom of the staircase. He set his foot on the first step and paused when the screaming ceased. They heard a door open and slam shut, and a red faced Phil came into view. The normally friendly girl came down to Gilbert's level, eyed him cynically and scoffed. "Good luck with that one," she'd muttered with contempt before stomping away. Bewildered, he gaped at her retreating form, then at Stella, who gave him one last nudge. This kicked him back in motion, and he climbed upstairs three steps at a time, rushing to the door he knew to be Anne's and knocked quietly. "Anne? It's me."_

 _He strained to hear signs of anything through the closed door: nothing but silence. Then, after a beat: "I'll be out in a moment."_

 _"How about you let me in?" he suggested. Another beat, then two..._

 _"Are you alone?" she asked timidly._

 _"Yes." The door opened a fraction, and he quickly slipped through before she could change her mind. Seeing as it was just the two of them in her bedroom, he deemed it more proper to leave the door cracked open, and turned to face her._

 _Anne's face was red and streaked with angry tears. He knew from experience (and all too well) that no amount of reason would calm her down from her worked up state. He approached her carefully, as one would a wild animal, until he was standing right in front of her. His fingers sought hers: he held her hands in his, resting them on his thighs, and waited for her erratic breathing to steady itself. When she looked up at him, it took all of his strength not to greedily engulf her mouth in a savage (and highly inappropriate) kiss._

 _Instead, he held her watery gaze. "Would you like to talk about it?"_

 _"I'd rather not."_

 _"How come?"_

 _"Because you'll be disappointed in me, and I couldn't bear it."_

 _"I won't be disappointed," he vowed._

 _She fixed him seriously._ _"Promise?"_

Gilbert couldn't remember what the problem had been - something rather small and petty, in the end. He'd rubbed her arms and listened as she talked, letting her rant without interrupting, abstaining from commenting. Eventually, she'd rationalized things in her own way, and they were able to get to their scheduled study session. When a considerably calmer Phil had returned asking for forgiveness for whatever harsh words she had said, Anne had apologized in turn for reacting as she had, and the two roommates forgave each other on the spot, and that was the last they had thought of the incident. Until now.

What was the particular significance of this memory? Gilbert wondered. Anne had always had a hot temper - it was something he'd learned the hard way, and wasn't prone to forget. On occasion, he stuck to his guns when it came to something important (or when a streak of mischief inspired him, and he just wanted to rile her up a bit) - but for the most part, he soothed her, kept her calm, spoke as the voice of reason, apologized on her behalf.

It was a heavy role at times which made him feel as the sole grownup in their relationship, but he recalled feeling a sort of pride in the beginning: knowing that he could work her down from her legendary fits, that he held the key to her inner peace.

He couldn't remember when he'd last used that key. There had been occasions to do so, but he simply hadn't been in the mood - for crying out loud, they were no longer children! They were fully grown adults, parents with responsibilities, and after a full day of work, the last thing he wanted to do was play mediator between his wife and the neighbors, or whoever was complaining about her at the time.

When had Anne become a burden in his life? When had she gone from being his dream come true, to being a silent, sullen figure at the dinner table, another confrontation late at night?

He began to suspect that if he wanted to truly find Anne, he'd have to search not only around him, but within himself as well.


	5. Arrangements and Buggy Rides

"...bit slow, but that's alright. We'll continue in the same direction tomorrow."

"Thank you, Doctor," said Anne as she and Dr. Lebrun came out of the office.

"Ah, Mr. Garrison. We've had an excellent session today."

Jack's throat constricted: he swallowed past an nodded. "Doctor, might I have a quick word with you?"

The older man's eyebrows came up, but his face showed no other sign of emotion. "Certainly. Please step in."

"I'll just be a minute," Jack whispered reassuringly to Anne as he passed her, and entered the office. Dr. Lebrun gestured to a seat, and took the other one.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Garrison?"

"Dr. Lebrun, I wanted to thank you for everything you're doing for Anne. She seems to be doing much better - I think the change in her is, well, quite obvious."

The eyed him pensively. "It's very nice of you to say so," replied the doctor, "but it does not answer my question."

"Right. What you can do for me." Jack scolded himself mentally for sounding like an idiot. "Doctor, I..." he sighed, and straightened his back. "I'm afraid I'll have to leave."

The man stared back silently. Jack continued: "I'd stay if I could. But you see - well, with my funds running out...I don't want to take Anne away when she seems to doing better here."

Still no response from the doctor. Jack went on, his yammering officially out of control. "I- I have a business to run. People under my employment, who need to earn their keep." He gulped, and admitted the full truth. "I don't want to take her away, but I can't stay."

The doctor shifted in his seat, but still said nothing, forcing Jack to spell it out.

"So I suppose you could tell me - could you? Tell me, I mean...whether she would be alright if she returned with me."

"I see," was all the man said, piercing him with a stare quite like his old schoolmistress's, the terrifying Mrs. Ratchwood. "Well, Mr. Garrison: what I _can_ tell you is that Ms. Shirley's state is quite fragile at the moment. I am reluctant to cease her treatment altogether."

"That's the other thing - I could probably cover the cost of this week's sessions, but I couldn't keep up without returning to my company. And...I don't want to just leave her behind. She's had enough of that for a lifetime."

The man's moustache twitched, indicating facial contortion of some sort (hopefully not a scowl). Jack felt like he had said all he could, and so he finally shut his mouth, sticking his chin out defiantly though he felt anything but confident.

"I have a proposition for you."

l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l

"Oh, Doctor! Goodness, we are ever so glad to have you back home. You must be exhausted from the trip! Supper won't be ready for another two hours or so, we weren't sure when you would be back from the station: your wire said late afternoon, we could only guess the time. But you could have a light bite between now and then, Celeste will fix something for you in a minute."

Gilbert smiled tiredly at the fussing bestowed on him by the flustered lady. "Thank you, Susan. I'm fine. I'll just go check the messages at the clinic, I promise to be back in time for supper."

"Doctor dear, you really ought to rest! You only just got back," she noted in a way that reminded him of his mother.

"I did nothing but rest on the train. Were there many calls for me while I was away?"

"Mrs. Gladys with a foot cramp, and the Fairfields' newborn with jaundice. I referred them both to Doctor Kerry, as you instructed."

"Thank you, that's perfect. I'll be back in a bit."

"Oh, Doctor dear, while you're out and about, would you mind giving Celeste a lift? I have a short list for the drugstore, she'll be quick about it while you stop by the office."

"What's on the list? I'll pick it up myself," offered Gilbert.

"Really, there's no need to trouble yourself. Celeste is happy to run errands for me. Let me just fetch her quickly..."

"Perhaps another time, then," he said, glancing at his pocket watch. "I'm afraid it's already quite late-"

But the agitated woman had already fetched her niece, and though Gilbert was in no mood for company right now, he couldn't think of a polite way to refuse her.

And so the two were off, driving the buggy on the path into town. As they made small chat, Gilbert mentally scolded himself for having resented Susan's insistence on having Celeste tag along. She was an amiable, good-natured girl, and a helpful boarder in his home who certainly earned her keep. They chatted on the road, and he was surprised to find it quite pleasant for a change. Her bright disposition and youth were refreshing: how could he have felt poorly about the poor girl in the first place? He berated Diana in his head for reading too deeply into the situation: he knew how she was. Diana couldn't help behaving like such a - Lord, he hated the term, but it was so true - a typical housewife, feeding upon gossip, creating drama where there wasn't any. He blamed her for influencing his mind so easily with her farfetched ideas, and himself for buying into them in the first place.

After a quick visit to the clinic and a promise to be in again tomorrow first thing in the morning, Gilbert found Celeste waiting for him already outside the store, her basket now heaped with purchased goods.

"That would be Susan's 'short' list?" asked Gilbert, helping her up in the buggy. She smiled at his teasing.

"You know how Aunt Susan is - it's always 'just one or two things - oh, and while you're at it, would you mind, and also,' and by the time I head out the list is as long as my forearm."

He chuckled at her spot-on imitation and flicked the reins, setting the horse in motion back toward home.

"Thank you for letting me tag along," she said once again. "I know you were eager to get going, I hope I haven't delayed you too much. You must be exhausted after your journey."

"Like I said, I really don't mind," he replied earnestly. "It's nice, being able to converse on the road."

"I imagine you haven't had much company since...well, Mrs. Wright, but it's not quite the same, is it?"

The last remark stilled him. What in the world...?

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing by it, Dr. Blythe! I was just noting...Please, I didn't mean it anyway." Her quick retraction sounded genuine enough, but there was something in her voice that suggested more than an apology. As he tried to grasp what exactly was bothering him, another memory assaulted him out of nowhere:

 _He had just fetched his horse, and was securing it to the buggy. Anne stepped out of the house, locking the door behind her._

 _"Are you certain you want to come along?" asked Gilbert for the third time. "It's getting to be quite cold out."_

 _As if on cue, a gust of icy wind swept upon them, ruffling their hair and clothes, but she fought valiantly to show her indifference towards the chilly November weather. "I'm alright, Gil. Really."_

 _"I only have to meet with Dr. Olgartz, I'm not sure how long it might take."_

 _"Please, Gil, I'm yearning for a change of scenery. I've been cleaning and dusting all day. I need to get out, or I'll go mad."_

 _At the time, he'd found her aversion to housekeeping amusing, even endearing. She was so different from the women in his life - and while she made conscientious efforts to satisfy her role as his wife and woman of the house, it seemed that even marriage couldn't change her rebellious nature, or penchant for the outdoors. Little did he know, this would become fuel for more than a few arguments in the future._

 _"Honestly, Anne. You'll be bored out of your mind." He recognized that with their honeymoon freshly behind them, she was already missing their time spent together. "_ _Why don't we go on an outing next Sunday, after church?" he proposed. "There's an indoors market in town, it'll be more fun than just sitting around in my office."_

 _But she merely shook her head. "I want to come with you. Please," she tugged on his sleeve like a pouting child. He couldn't help but grin at how adorable his wife was. "There's something about riding in the buggy with you. It's...intimate."_

 _"Intimate?" he parroted dumbly, mesmerized by a stray lock of her orange hair waving in the breeze._

 _"We're in public, yet it's just the two of us," she explained. "I love the way you keep your eyes on the path ahead and steer carefully around the turns. It makes me feel safe and cared for. But at the same time, you let your guard down - we can talk about anything, without fear of being overheard by anyone. And...I like sitting close to you."_

 _Her saucy smile thrilled him, and in the end, he'd been persuaded to let her come along. He'd be lying if he'd claimed not to enjoy slinging his arm around her shoulders, his thigh closely pressed up against hers..._

"Dr. Blythe?"

Gilbert blinked and snapped out of his memory. Celeste was eyeing him cautiously with wide eyes.

"Sorry," he muttered, and gave his head a little shake. He hadn't realized they'd already reached the fork in the road, and pulled a hard left turn. His horse obeyed the sharp command, making the buggy sway from the momentum. The two passengers were jostled, and when the wheels had realigned of their own accord, Gilbert found himself sitting with Celeste halfway on his lap. Which he wouldn't have minded, had she immediately gotten off. But instead, she stared directly at him, unmoving, her face dangerously close to his.

With an unceremonious shove and some less than graceful shuffling, Celeste was once again seated on the bench, almost a foot away from Gilbert. Neither spoke: her, out of embarrassment, no doubt. And he, well, he was busy calling himself all sorts of names in his head. Diana had been right all along anyway, Susan was almost certainly pressing things that were not appropriate, and he was a delusional fool. He spent the rest of the ride in silence, resigning himself to having a conversation once they got home, one he'd been avoiding for a while.


	6. Leaving me, leaving you

Anne stood and watched as Jack fastened his traveling trunk to the back of his buggy.

"You're absolutely sure you'll be fine on your own?" he asked her for the fifth time. She attempted a small smile at him.

"Yes. I'll be alright." Although she would miss his presence: Jack had been an unending source of support to her, and a kind friend as well. "You know I'll barely be alone. I'll be seeing Dr. Lebrun until he deems me fit to look after myself. He'll watch me as a nanny minds a child."

Jack grinned half-heartedly at her last comment. "I still don't like the idea of him using you as a lab rat."

Anne shook her head. "I'm not a lab rat: I'm a subject of research. Plus, he promised to keep me anonymous, and all details confidential - all he'll ever share or publish are my state of mind and emotional reactions. Anyhow, it's good for the business."

Jack's face fell entirely. "God, Anne, don't you dare think-"

"I _know_ that's not why you agreed, Jack. But let's be practical for a moment: I can't afford his services, and I can't take anymore help from you - I won't. To receive such care free of charge in exchange for advancing his research is...it's the only way. And if by the same occasion it benefits the publishing house, well, that's just convenient."

She could see by the hard expression in his eyes that while he wanted to agree, he simply wasn't convinced. Filled with the need to prove to him that she was alright, she stepped up to him and grasped his hand in hers. "It's alright, Jack. I'm getting help. I'll be better soon."

His gazed softened a fraction. "You don't have to. I mean - take your time. I know you'll get better, Anne Shirley. Whether it takes a month, a year, or more...just don't rush it. Take however much time you need." He looked down at their joined hands and he sighed. "In another lifetime, Anne, I would have loved a chance to make you happy."

Her smiled was sad. "I suppose there is a chance he won't take me back."

"Of course he will. Don't even joke about it." He couldn't keep the note of bitterness from his voice. "You'll get better and go home, and he'll fall to his knees and beg you never to leave again. It's what any fool with a modicum of sense would do."

"Jack-"

He look up at her pleading tone, and she tried to convey with her eyes what she could not say. With a boldness that was typical of Anne, she stood on the tip of her toes and pressed a clumsy, yet genuine kiss to his cheek. His gasp made her avert her gaze to the buggy.

"I better be going," he muttered when he'd found his voice again.

"Yes," was all she could muster as their hands slid apart.

"I'll be back next Sunday. We'll have dinner and catch up."

The promise of some normalcy in the future made the corners of her lips perk up again. "I'll look forward to it, then. Have a safe trip home."

In one swift movement, Jack eased himself up on the bench of the buggy, turned to wink at her, and clicked the reins, urging the horse forward. Anne gave a small wave in return, and stayed to watch until the buggy was completely out of sight.

o0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0O0o

Gilbert couldn't sleep.

To tell the truth, he'd become accustomed to sleeping poorly. Growing up on a farm, he'd gotten the 'getting up early' part down to a T. As a teacher, work kept him up; then, as a student, his own homework and exams. And of course, a doctor's schedule was prone to all and any kind of hours. So, the quantity or quality of sleep was not a given on any night.

Tonight, however, it wouldn't come at all. He'd gotten in bed and waited. Tossed, turned, waited some more. Thrown the blanket off himself: crawled back under it. Try as he might, he simply could not fall asleep.

Giving up, he lit the bedside candle and read the time: half past two. He yawned as he searched for his slippers, donned his robe and stood up. His feet trudged out of the room of their own accord: Gilbert did not consciously know where they were taking him until he found himself standing in front of the largest window of the house - the one with the reading nook.

Its main three occupants had been Anne, Walter, and Achilles, the marmalade cat the young Blythe couple had adopted. The latter had enjoyed sprawling into the sunbeam filtered through the glass, but had died several years ago. Walter would stare out the window endlessly without moving, mouth agape, imagining who-knew-what, but of course he was with the Wrights. As for Anne, she had practically lived in that nook when they first moved in. Every night he came home late, there she'd be: curled up reading by candlelight, or fast asleep despite her efforts to wait up for him.

Eventually, Anne had stopped greeting him downstairs after his long days that had turned into long evenings, preferring to retire upstairs before his return. Gilbert couldn't remember when he'd last seen her in the nook she'd loved so much. It must have predated Jem. Now that he thought about it, he could probably trace it back to...

His heart constricted just thinking about it: the worst time of his life. Those dark days when he'd received a gift so precious, only to have it taken away in the gentlest, cruelest way. When Anne's life had been spared in the end, he'd offered a prayer of thanks above, that he'd been allowed to keep one of the two loves of his life. But the truth was, he'd lost his wife as well as his firstborn child. His tiny baby girl, with barely enough strength to cry at her birth; whose precious little fingers had not been able to wrap around his thumb; who was not meant to spend an entire day on this earth.

It was Providence: he could accept that. It hurt horribly, beyond words, but who was he to question it? Anne, however, would not accept it. She was not grateful to have survived, and had even admitted without shame that dying along with Joyce would have been preferable. This confirmed what he'd always known in his heart: Anne was selfish. The only feelings that mattered were her own, and she wouldn't think twice about leaving him if they overwhelmed her.

Amidst the pain that always accompanied thoughts of his terrible loss, a light switched on in his mind: if her feelings overwhelmed her...

Finally, he understood. She didn't despise him. Her leaving was not because of something he'd done or said. She'd left because she'd felt overwhelmed. This new knowledge was simultaneously a relief and a burden, because while he hadn't been responsible for her running away, he probably could have prevented it.

Easing himself down on the seat, he peered out the window into the frosty, starry night. _I'll find your mother,_ he promised to his beloved daughter, addressing her for the first time in years. _I'll bring her back._ He propped his feet up in front of him, resting his back on the wall behind him, and stared out the window until dawn.


	7. Uprooting the issues

**_AN: Apologies for the lack of updates! Had some family affairs to straighten out...anyhow, new chapter is up, and more to follow! Thank you for your patience, and I look forward to your comments._**

 ** _o**********************************************o_**

 _A breeze drafted through the girls' dormitory. Anne shivered and curled into an even tighter ball under the thin burlap. During the summer, she secretly coveted her bed, for two reasons mostly. First, it was in the far corner of the room, furthest from the door. Second was the window right beside her, a means for her mind to escape to another world - and potentially an escape for her body, as well, should the need arise._

 _During the winter, though, nothing could keep out the cold, and Anne's bed was first in line to receive the icy gusts. Old man Cooper had nailed the ledge to the sill a while ago, and done a poor job of it - a good thing, too, because when the bottom floor had caught fire last spring, she and some of the bigger girls had been able to pry the nails loose, and everyone had been evacuated safely. The worst of the damage had been a persistent cough shared by those who'd breathed in more smoke than others, and the acrid smell of singed wood and fabric that still lingered in every room. No one had thought of fixing the window after that, a fact for which Anne was grateful in the summertime._

 _Now that February was in full swing, and the night wind chilled her to the bone, she quaked under her thin, porous sack that had been cut up to make a blanket. She was so cold, her limbs hurt. The pain was such that she couldn't sleep, and to be kept awake when she was so tired and cold was torture._ I just want to sleep, _she thought._ Anything not to have to feel this. Even death would be better. _Only, death never did come, and neither did sleep..._

Anne stared at the ceiling, disoriented and confused. It took her several seconds to identify her surroundings (her room at the Ulaafsens', her Scandinavian lodgers right across the street from Dr. Lebrun), and several more to understand that the sounds of the wind outside had woken her from a dream. She'd been reliving scenes from her past in her sleep increasingly since the doctor had deepened and sharpened the nature of his questions to her. In fact, between talking about it during the day, the dreams at night, and the moments in which her mind lost itself in memories more vivid than real life (waking dreams, the doctor called them), she was having a hard time telling fact from fiction of her own life story.

She'd brought up this troubling notion during her session last week. The doctor had, in her eyes, been awfully cavalier about it all. He assured her that "being certain of the accuracy of one's past would prove to be quite futile in the end of all matters."

"And the fact that I can't tell truth from my own fabrications is not worrisome?" she pressed on. "This is your field of expertise, after all, so you tell me - is the possibility of losing my mind futile?"

"First off, I feel quite confident that you are not losing your mind. I also feel confident in my assertion that separating true memories from the created ones is not necessarily key. What is more significant to me right now is that you are attaching importance to what happened."

Anne's eyebrows furrowed. "So, you're saying that it doesn't matter that I may be losing my sanity, as long as it matters to me?"

And then, the infuriating man did something she had deemed until then unthinkable: he laughed. A burst of uncontrollable, highly undignified laughter that had him doubled over in his chair. "I-I'm sorr- I'm so-" he choked out, only to succumb to hysterical giggles again. Eventually, the amusement caught on, and the corner of her lips lifted despite herself. A chortle escaped, then another, and soon they both were reduced to tears of hilarity.

 _Futile my hind foot,_ Anne thought with a sardonic smile now, and pushed her way out of bed to get ready for the day.

Fifteen minutes later, her spade pushed through the hard ground, digging until she found what she'd been looking for. Dropping the tool, she plunged her hands through the cold soil and closed her fingers around the thin green line. She tugged firmly but carefully, so as not to snap it, and pulled until it came out practically of its own accord.

"Quite an early start for you today."

She turned to smile at her interlocutor. "The day was beckoning," she said in guise of explanation, covering up the hole with the loose dirt.

"The sun has yet to rise," noted Dr. Lebrun, a bushy eyebrow raised.

"Weeds are best caught before the break of day." She discarded the uprooted vine and stood up, brushing the dirt from her hands. Like all good things, she had earned her position of landscaper by accident. _The day Jack had returned to his job, she had wandered around the neighborhood. As it seemed that she would be staying here for a while, she figured it would be good to familiarize herself with the roads and houses - something she had never bothered doing in Port Hope. Later that afternoon, Anne had asked the doctor why his was the only house without the slightest bit of green around it - not even a shrub, and didn't it seem awfully bare to him? "Not for lack of effort," he'd replied over his teacup. "Nothing grows here. We've tried many times - bulbs, vines, herbs, even root vegetables! It simply won't take." Offended that he might imply the land to be at fault, Anne had assured him that plants could grow anywhere, given the right circumstances. "Perhaps you would like to try your hand at it, then?"_

Glad to have anything to do with her hands again, Anne had agreed to try, refusing the doctor's offer to buy seeds on his next outing to town. _"Please - if you don't mind, I'd rather collect some myself. I wouldn't want you to have to spend anything - not when you're already doing so much for me. Besides, there is plenty of life by the creek, I'll gather seeds and bulbs there." "You would rather poach wildflowers?" "They can thrive most anywhere - they're much more resilient than domestic plants, at any rate." "And why is that?" he inquired, wearing the same even, neutral expression as when he was analyzing her words, but Anne was too caught up to notice. "They belong to the real world, to nature. They endure frost, snow, scorching sun, high wind and deluge. House plants pertain to man made structures, they require pots and regular waterings, and so much care...wildflowers will survive foxes and birds and rabbits, even bears! We don't need to receive any adoration or care to survive." "We?"_

 _Anne froze. The wrong pronoun had simply slipped out without her realizing. "They. I meant they." "People generally say what they mean, Anne." Her cheeks burned, her heart stammered, and moisture glazed over her eyes. "I...I'm not a flower, Dr. Lebrun." "Are you saying that you are wild, then?"_

The tears that had been building up spilt down her cheeks in earnest, and the kind man had escorted her back to his sitting room, where they then proceeded to have the most revealing, eye-opening session yet. Since then, Anne had thrown herself diligently into gardening, plunging with great enthusiasm into the ground, and exploring the sides of the roads, making an inventory of what grew and how it grew. She would give the man a beautiful arrangement, vegetation fit for the gods: he certainly deserved it.

"Well, since you're here before my first appointment, you might as well come in for a cup of tea. I believe Hilda will be fixing scones."

"Thank you, that would be nice. I'll just fill up this hole and I'll be right in."

lIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIlIl

Gilbert kept his eyes closed, reluctant to fully wake up. He'd dreamed of Anne again: they were walking in the woods together, giggling and chatting about anything that went through their heads, and she was making a golden crown of dandelions and yellow daisies. When it was done, she placed it ceremoniously on his head, her laughter ringing out, bouncing off the trees...

Sounds of morning preparations interrupted his fantasy: it was time to get up and face reality. Pushing himself off the bed and up on his feet, he shuffled like a weary old man across the room. Washed up, got dressed, headed to his office room. As it had been every day for the past few weeks, a tray of hot breakfast and tea was waiting for him on his desk. He settled down in his seat, picked up the document at the top of the neatly stacked pile and got to work, reading as he sipped on his tea. As usual, he would devour the pages in front of him and all but forget his meal, leaving the hot buttered buns and strawberry preserves practically untouched.

This routine had been put in place after the buggy ride incident with Celeste. That evening, upon their return, Gilbert had excused himself and informed Celeste that he needed to have a word with her Aunt in private, would she please give them a moment? The young woman had ducked her head and gathered her purchases, avoiding eye contact with him as she headed indoors. He hadn't quite caught what she'd muttered as she passed him, and hadn't cared either: Gilbert was at breaking point, and needed to confront Susan straight away. He found her in the kitchen, where, busy with the vegetables she was dicing, she did not notice the angry expression on his face.

 _"Oh, you're back, Doctor dear!" she exclaimed joyfully. "Supper is nearly ready now - lamb stew and cornbread, goodness knows you could use a little plumping, Doctor, I can only take your trousers in so many times, you know-"_

 _"Susan." His harsh tone stopped her prattling, and she looked up, surprised. He cleared his throat and breathed in, trying to rein in his temper. "Why is she here?"_

 _"Doctor?"_

 _"Celeste," he spoke more evenly, struggling to keep his voice sturdy. "Why is she here?"_

 _"Why, Doctor, we needed help with the children, what with the-"_

 _"The children are in Avonlea with their godmother. Why is Celeste here?"_

 _And then, the woman had had the nerve to give him a pitying look. "Now, Doctor, this house needs a woman's presence, children or no children. Goodness knows I do the best I can, but we can't rely entirely on Mrs. Wright - she has her own children to look after, Doctor, and her own husband. It was good of her to offer help-"_

 _"She is the children's godmother!" he gritted out, straining against the heat spreading from his cheeks to his neck._

 _"-but it wouldn't do sitting here, moping about, all alone, waiting for God to change his will-"_

 _"God's will?" He was aware that he was full on screaming now, but couldn't bring himself to cool down. "What do you know of God's will for me?"_

 _"Doctor, I will not stand by while you denounce Providence-"_

 _"Providence?!" he bellowed, still unable to rein his voice in. "Is that what you call your scheming, Susan? God's will! You have no idea- you just do not- cannot-"Gilbert gulped and dragged a shaky hand through his hair, breathing as though he'd just run a mile. He turned his back on a bewildered Susan, who remained mute, struck by his emotional outburst._

 _"You will leave in the morning," he enunciated quietly but clearly when he'd regained some control. "Both of you." He went on over her gasp: "You'll both receive an appropriate settlement, as well as excellent letters of recommendation. If you wish, I could find you fair and secure positions within good families elsewhere."_

 _"Doctor," her voice was demure now, and filled with tears. "Surely you don't mean..."_

 _He turned so that she could see his profile now, grave, serious, resigned. "Let me know where to send your belongings once you're settled," he instructed, and went to shut himself up in his office._

 _It was already half past eleven when a knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. "Dr. Blythe, may I please come in?"_

 _She was the last person he wanted to deal with at the moment, and so said nothing, but the door opened anyway, and in stepped Celeste, a plain burgundy shawl modestly covering what her nightgown didn't. As he took in a breath to send her away, the girl set her candle down on his desk. "I won't be long," she vowed. "I know you want me gone, and I will be, tomorrow, as soon as I can get a ride. Only, please, don't send Aunt Susan away."_

 _Taken aback by her honest tone, one he hadn't heard much in her brief stay at the Blythe residence, Gilbert leaned back in his seat and gestured to the empty chair across from his desk. "I wasn't going to," he admitted as she accepted his invitation to sit. "I spoke out of spite, and other ugly emotions. I would never send her away on a whim." His eyes made contact with hers, now, monitoring the effect of his following words. "You do understand, though, why I have to send_ you _away."_

 _She nodded once, and he saw tears well up in her eyes before she averted her gaze. His reflex was to go around and hold her hand, to lend her comfort until she was soothed, but caution made him keep his distance. Too many boundaries had been broken, and it was most likely his fault. Who knew how many times he'd encouraged it, given the wrong impression. Instead, he held out his handkerchief, careful that their fingers did not touch as she reached out for it. She dabbed at her eyes and looked up again._

 _"I never meant to start trouble," she pleaded._ Well, you did, _he thought bitterly. Her lips quirked up at the corners, as though she'd heard. "You don't believe me, but it's true. Aunt Susan called me here to help, and I was happy to do so. Life at home was getting overbearing, you see. My father has a hard time with his illness, it's been so for a long time now, and my mother is at her wit's end. When it was mentioned that you might be looking for companionship, I couldn't wait. I told myself it wouldn't matter what you looked like, as long as you were kind. A surgeon typically has good standing in society, and of course one would have to be intelligent enough to become a doctor. We hadn't met, and I already set out to charm you, to appeal to your senses as much as I could."_

 _"Good Lord," Gilbert moaned tiredly. "I could have been anyone. There is such a thing as bad surgeons, and violent doctors. Even stupid doctors."_

 _"But you weren't! Of course I wouldn't have thrown myself at you were you completely barbaric, or feeble-minded, or toothless - but you weren't any of those things. You were wonderful, don't you see? So intelligent, and charming, and handsome...how could I not yearn to be a part of your life on a deeper level? I just had to try and win you over."_

 _"I'm not a street prize at the fair, Celeste," he said sternly. "I'm a man, with his own thoughts and feelings, one that ."_

 _"A man without a wife present." If looks could kill, Gilbert would have been in violation of his Hippocratic oath, but she didn't look up. "Men are breadwinners and decision makers, but without a wife, who would keep the house, mind the children? Aunt Susan was stretched thin, and I was willing to step into that role. I didn't care what people would say, Doctor- I still don't. I would have done anything to fit in your home, and not have to go back."_

 _Gilbert rested his elbows on the desk, and his forehead in his palms. Gender class statements such as this one riled him up. But h_ _is shoulders and back were already sore, his eyes burned from lack of sleep, his mind swam in his aching head, and he was simply exhausted. He straightened up with a sigh. Maybe he would cave in and take a sleeping draft tonight._

 _"I'm sorry your situation with your parents is difficult," he said plainly to the girl in front of him. "But I am a married man, and I love my wife - a fact which no one seems to understand or respect. I can't stop the gossip mongers out there from running their tongues, but I will not tolerate it starting in my own home. Your aunt never should have led you to believe that I was looking for anything beyond some help around the house. I advise that you assess future situations with more care, before considering how you may enter them. Bear this in mind for next time."_

 _"There might not be a next time," she said dejectedly, a small pout playing on her lips as she readjusted her shawl in front of her. "Father will be awfully cross at my being dismissed. I doubt he'll let me go out a second time."_

 _Moved despite his better judgement by the girl's family woes, Gilbert felt himself soften a bit. "Look, don't tell him you were dismissed. You can say that the workload was manageable for Susan alone now that the children are in Avonlea, or that the area is being quarantined for rubeola. I'll place some calls in the morning, find you a position with a nice family."_

 _The girl nodded and stood, gathering her candle. "I'll return the handkerchief by post, I'd like to wash it first."_

 _"Susan can take care of it. Just leave it in the laundry basket."_

 _"Thank you for keeping Aunt Susan. However I might have earned my dismissal, she truly doesn't deserve it."_

 _"She's been good to me." A courtesy she had apparently not extended to Anne._

 _"Yes. Well." She said abruptly and walked away, pausing for a moment in the doorway to look at the man who could have been so much more. "Doctor?"_

 _Gilbert turned in his seat to face her, his expression so grim that her heart broke for him, and she changed what she had been about to say. "I hope she comes back."_

So do I, _he thought with a sad sort of smile. "Thank you."_

The next day, Celeste had been loaded into the Bundts' cart and driven to the station by their stable boy, and Gilbert had wired her parents to announce her arrival. He had apologized to Susan for losing his temper, and let her apologize in turn for overstepping her duties, but stopped her before she could say anything regarding Anne. _"Not now. Maybe some other time, only...not yet."_ Sufficiently embarrassed as it was, Susan had nodded and disappeared off to clean the guest room.

And so they fell into a rhythm that involved minimal contact with each other. A fresh breakfast tray greeted him in his study every morning. He would leave for work, and upon his return, the papers would have been stacked up neatly, the room would have been aired out, and the tray would now be covered with a lid, under which a hot supper was waiting. His used clothes showed up cleaned and pressed on his bed, the water in his wash basin was always clear and fresh.

 _Hermit,_ he called himself. _Lonely, pathetic recluse who cowers in his own house._ No more, he scolded himself as he set down the document, picked up the tray and headed for the kitchen. Things needed to change around here, starting with his attitude.


	8. Reaching out and needling in

Anne removed her gardening boots at the door to change into her indoor slippers (she was a frequent enough visitor to keep a pair here). She hung her coat, scarf and hat and let herself in through the hallway.

"Good morning, Miss Hilda," she called, and sat down by the oven next to Dr. Lebrun. The bustling housekeeper barely acknowledged her, affording something between 'good morning' and a grunt without looking up from her tasks.

"How are things in Paradise?" asked the doctor, teasingly referring to the time Anne had promised him a yard 'so unruly and so beautiful, it will be the very description of Eden, right here on Earth.' Over piping hot cinnamon scones and the tea Hilda had thrust in their hands, Anne assured him that there was still quite a bit more weeding to do, but that she was confident that the first buds and blooms would start showing after the next rain. In the meanwhile, she was waiting for spring to return, so that she might collect more specimens, and perhaps some fern would be nice in the south east corner.

"The trouble with ferns, though, is that once they are given a place to grow, there is no taking back the invitation. What more, they multiply at a frightful rate, it would be quite a task to keep them under control."

"Anne, you have assured me that chaos is beautiful. I already gave you free rein to do with the land as you please, so long as there is a clear path from the road to the front door. What would be so wrong with some ferns quietly invading a corner?"

Anne smiled at the doctor's humor. "Oh, there is nothing quiet about a fern invasion, I assure you. But I suppose you're right - it _would_ help achieve the jungle-like greenery I was so hoping for." She took a sip of her tea and pushed her feet closer to the stove, the better to warm her toes.

Dr. Lebrun nibbled the corner of his scone, then daintily pressed a napkin to his mouth. "There is something on your mind other than ferns," he commented mildly.

By now, Anne was used to being read so easily by a man who'd only met her a short time ago. "Actually, I had a favor to ask of you." She was also used to speaking frankly in front of Hilda (the taciturn woman never spoke more than five consecutive words, so she felt confident her secrets would be safe), so she went on without much trepidation. "I would like to speak to a catholic nun. I was hoping you knew one...perhaps a more broad minded one. Or at least, one tolerant enough to meet up with me."

"Considering another lifestyle?" he asked, eyebrow raised, and took another sip of tea.

"No, nothing of the sort. I just had some questions regarding doctrine."

"Well, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. The nearest convent to my knowledge is St. Clotilde. It is quite sequestered from society, the sisters do not exit, and access is naturally forbidden."

"Oh, well, it wasn't so important either way," she said lightly.

"But perhaps I could do better." The doctor set his teacup back on its saucer. "I happen to be on speaking terms with a deacon, from Our Lady of Sorrows, in Toronto. It may not be exactly what you were looking for, but he is a well-learned man, and quite open-minded. If your questions concern theology, I'm sure he would be able to answer you as well as any nun would. In preparation for priesthood, he's had to study canonical scripture extremely thoroughly. At any rate, I would imagine him to be just as immersed in his devotion to the catholic church as his fellow sisters."

Anne quickly processed the information. She had so hoped to speak to a nun...well, perhaps a deacon would do. "Is he nice?" she asked with trepidation. "Kind, I mean?"

"It's the only reason I bring him up," Dr. Lebrun.

"Well, if you think he might humor me..."

"I'm certain he won't mind the slightest. I'll call him this afternoon."

l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:l:

"More cake?"

"Thank you, Susan." Gilbert handed her his plate, though he wasn't the slightest bit hungry. He recognized the cake for what it was, though, and would make an effort to show her how much he appreciated it.

"Glad to see you've gotten some of your appetite back, Doctor dear," the woman said tenderly as she placed a generous slab of lemon pound cake on the plate. "It would be nice to see you put on a bit more weight," she couldn't help but add.

"I'm trying," Gilbert replied with a small smile, and tucked his spoon into the spongy dessert. "Mm. Keep baking like this, and it will no longer be an issue."

"I was wondering, Doctor, have you given any thought as to when to bring the children back?"

The sweet icing stuck in his throat, and Gilbert had to use his tea to force it down. "I have to call Fred and Di. If they don't mind, I think it best the boys stay with them for the time being. What with the visits planned to Bolingbrook, and then Toronto...there's a couple more leads, I'll have to check them out before considering the trips. I just...I don't want the boys to know, especially if I can't..." He looked away. "I don't want them to be disappointed, more than they already are."

He'd expected Susan to argue that the boys needed to come home straight away, but she simply nodded, and poured out more tea for both of them. The expression on her face didn't go unnoticed to him - it was the same he wore when he thought of his sons. "You could go visit them," he suggested. "Bring them a cake of there own. I'm sure the Wrights would appreciate it, what with Jem eating them out of house and home."

He'd succeeded in perking up Susan, who then helped herself to a thick slice of her own, and the two of them finished their treat in companionable silence, not quite happy, but reassured.

When he could stomach no more, he stood and excused himself, retiring upstairs for the night. Sleep had become so elusive at this point, Gilbert hardly bothered to go the bed anymore. Instead, he stayed up in the study, paced around as he read and thought and zoned out, stretching out on the divan for occasional catnaps.

After washing up, he slipped his robe over his night clothes and settled at the desk to tackle the pile of unopened envelopes. There were only four tonight; the first held an invitation to a medical supplies' fair in New Brunswick, which he immediately discarded. The second contained his account to settle at the grocer's. The figure seemed abnormally low at first, but considering there was only Susan and himself to feed nowadays, it seemed accurate. He took his wallet from the top drawer, counted out the asked amount and set it aside, so Susan might bring it to the shop on Monday.

The third envelope one made his hands pause - the same handwriting and post markings as no less than six envelopes he'd received previously. He set it aside and opened the fourth envelope, a letter from a young medical student he'd been advising, detailing allergic reactions to shellfish. This, he decided, he could deal with. Stationary was pulled out, the ink vial was opened and his pen dipped into it. What he couldn't recall from his own experiences with past clients, he looked up in reference books and articles. Signed, addressed, ready to be sent out, and joined the grocer's bill to be sent out with Susan.

His obligations were taken care of, and he leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. Were he not a doctor, he might now be enjoying a pipe. This would make him a hypocrite, though, especially when he'd observed the effects of smoking on men (and women, for that matter) over the years. Coughing, asthma, constant illness and slow recovery times - it simply wasn't worth it. He didn't believe in drinking for leisure outside of special occasions, so a glass of blackberry wine was out of the question. His idle fingers began to twitch, his breathing grew erratic with irritation.

Giving in, he reached for the remaining piece of mail and opened it. The usual single page, with the same scratchy penmanship, on the same white sheet of paper (of very nice grade).

 _Dr. Blythe,_

 _Still waiting for your response. If you do not wish to know Anne's current location, at least have the decency acknowledge her. As your wife, she is entitled to your support, whether you feel like giving it or not._

 _As instructed in the former correspondences, send your reply addressed to Ms. J. Gitman, at Denver Publishing House, 42 Wellington Lane in Toronto._

Not caring much for the letter's tone, he crumpled it and disposed of it in the wastebasket, and stood to glance down the hallway. The house had gone silent and the lights were all out - Susan had apparently turned in early. Or not so early, he corrected himself, glancing at the clock. After checking the hall one last time, he closed the door quietly and pulled out his old medical bag from under the divan. From the bag, he extracted a round wooden frame with a half-finished pattern in the center. Plucking the needle from its resting place, Gilbert breathed out and indulged in the only activity that could sooth his nerves.

How ironic, he thought, that he would accuse his wife of having outlandish and atypical fancies (such as exploring caves and climbing trees), when he enjoyed the girliest of pass times.

With a bittersweet smile, Gilbert sat by the fire and worked on his crocheting.


	9. Hope and Faith

Gilbert liked going to church, he always had.

Well, perhaps not as a toddler, when it was so hard to sit still for long. No, his penchant for early Sunday morning service developed when he was ten years old. Terrified and lonely in Alberta, he was separated from his father most of the day (he spent all day sleeping anyway). He missed his mother, and his friends, and his home. He missed his class a lot - the nearest school was beyond walking distance, and there was no one in the vicinity who could spare the time to fetch him.

On Sundays, however, Gilbert would wake up early and run out back to the water pump. There, he would wash his face and teeth, then wet down his hair. Then, he would quietly creep back inside, into his room to dry off and run a comb through his dripping mass of unruly curls. He would don his smartest outfit, scrub the dirt from his shoes, and walk with the caregivers and housekeepers to the chapel. The bright lights, the polished pews, the poignant sermons, the singing...he liked it all very much. He would go to bed on Saturday with excitement bubbling in his stomach, ready for the distraction and peaceful feelings.

Church in Avonlea was less sunny. Old Mr. Bentley's sermons were rehearsed and stiff, and his voice was dry as toast. But Gilbert still enjoyed the psalms, the congregation, the sensation of belonging. He got to sit beside his mother, feeding off on her serenity (Sarah Blythe was not one to let herself rest easily), and give thanks for his father's recovery.

In Glen St Mary, he and Anne had attended a Protestant Temple with ideologies similar enough to the ones with which they'd been raised. Gilbert had hoped that they might be able to bond over their faith, but then again, Anne had never enjoyed anything that required to stay still and quiet. Later, church would become his refuge, a place where he could go to sit in peace, to feel acceptance. A place where it didn't matter whether he was a successful doctor or not, or how nice his house was, or next to whom he was sitting. Every man was equal in church.

Today, Gilbert wasn't focusing on the sermon. He wasn't even thinking of religious matters. Instead, his thoughts kept returning to the seven pieces of wrinkled paper that remained locked in his private document drawer. Each contained more or less the same message, and had been given the same treatment: crumpled, thrown in the waist basket, removed from the waist basket, flattened out and reread a hundred times.

The first one had arrived three weeks after his horrible visit in Kingsport. With Di minding the boys, he was able to throw himself into the search with reckless abandon. The police had reluctantly put out an missing persons' alert, but had advised him against getting his hopes up. Dozens of letters were sent out to every location he could think of, calls were placed, making the telephone ring so much that Susan surely was having fantasies of throwing it off a cliff.

He'd even taken out semi-weekly ads in newspapers across three provinces, keeping nothing but their names private. The ads detailed Anne's physical description, last know locations, and offered a financial recompense for any helpful and accurate information sent to his office under a fake name. This had been a mistake, he recognized too late, as letters piled up. None of them had offered anything substantial, and all had been blatant attempts at redeeming the promised reward.

Disgusted, Gilbert had delegated the task of filtering the answers to his poor secretary. The old woman shook her head with a sad smile whenever he inquired about it, so after a while, he'd told her not to bother anymore, and to feed the responses straight to the fire.

But two things made these messages stand out among the mountains of false leads. First, there was no mention whatsoever of money. This didn't mean that there would be no bartering later - after all, nothing had been divulged about Anne's whereabouts as of yet - but still, Gilbert was inclined to believe that money would not come into play. Second, and most important, the letter was delivered straight to his house. Digging for information J. Gitman, Mr. or Mrs., had proved fruitless. He'd telephoned and wired the Denver Publishing Company, where no one had heard of any employee or spouse under that name.

It became clear to Gilbert that the only way to get a response was to follow the instructions, play the elusive J. Gitman's game and write back. But was it worth getting his hopes up again?

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

Davy Keith balanced his ax with his left hand and wiped his brow. He'd been chopping wood for the past half hour, and the frosty air was quickly chilling the sweat on his skin. Green Gables was cold in the winter, and Davy was the only one around up to the task of stocking up on firewood. This had nothing to do with his being the only male around - the women who'd raised him were as strong and unafraid of hard work as they were kind and loving. Rachel Lynde was a force NOT to be reckoned with, and she knew her way around a sharp objects. The woman could kill a chicken without blinking (she'd done so once a week when he was a little boy). Marilla Cuthbert didn't need a knife to be intimidating - that glare of hers was known to send grown men scampering.

Well, it used to, anyway. Ever since the news had come about Anne, Marilla had basically caved in on herself. Grief had turned her into a brittle old lady, and there was a fragility in her eyes that petrified Davy. Unless something changed soon, he didn't think she would stay with them much longer.

In the meanwhile, they needed wood to keep the heating ovens going. Davy got back to work, building up a hefty pile before movement down the road caught his attention. Though the figure was far off, Davy recognized him as Jeb McKinney.

"Davy, I heard you were back in town!" the man called and waved as he let himself through the gate. Davy split the remains of the log, then planted the ax the stump. He'd discouraged visitors at Green Gables as politely as he could, greet them at the edge of the property, thanking them for the tureens full of freshly made stew and the loaves of bread, assuring them that Marilla was doing as well as could be expected, and promising to come to tea as soon as it was manageable. Empty platitudes, the most polite form of sin Davy knew, but it was still a better alternative than letting Rachel run her tongue. Enough well-meaning neighbors and friends had huffed out of the house that Davy had taken it on himself to intercept all unannounced surprisers.

There was no avoiding this one, however. "Hello, Mr, McKinney," he called, trying for an upbeat tone of voice. It sounded fake, he noted disgustedly.

"It's mighty good seeing you here, ol' boy. How are you, eh? All settled in yet?"

"Just about, thank you. Sorry I haven't been to church."

"Please, don't worry," the minister brushed the apology aside. "This is where you're most needed. Everyone was pleased to hear that you'd come back - even though you had to return on short notice. Manitoba?"

"Winnipeg," Davy nodded, impressed despite himself. The man's smile oozed of oily charm, and his mind was sharp as a sewing pin.

"It must have been hard. I know Millie's folks had been trying to get you to move there for quite a while."

"They understand," said Davy. "Millie explained the situation. Anyway, I've been thinking, with the way things are going, we might be looking into moving in here instead."

"How wonderful!" the minister exclaimed genuinely. "And how selfless of you both. I know that Miss Cuthbert and Mrs. Lynde will be very grateful for the help. Speaking of which, I was hoping to pay them a visit. In these times of sorrow and pain, I would like to bring some messages of hope and faith."

There it was - the damned request, the one that Davy couldn't refuse - not politely, anyway. But he didn't want anything upsetting Marilla, and he knew that Rachel would be forced to sit and listen, regardless of how many times she complained about services after exiting church. Mrs. Lynde was fiercely protective of her friends and kin, but even she wouldn't speak over the minister.

"Mr. McKinney..."

Sensing his hesitation, the minister set a hand on the young man's shoulder. "It's alright," he said quietly. "God listens and provides for all his children, especially those who are suffering. Marilla will be alright - she just needs to be reminded." Under the man's hypnotic spell, Davy found himself nodding and opening the front door for him. Still stunned, he went to pile the chopped firewood under the awning. Maybe the minister was right - maybe this was what Marilla needed right now. After all, her faith had always been important to her, but she'd struggled with it - with everything, really, as of late. All she ever did anymore was look out the window during the day, and cry for Anne and night. She didn't eat, she barely slept, the tea trays he brought up to her room remained mostly untouched... Yes, maybe this visit would help Marilla, give her strength.

Done with his chore, Davy took the remaining four pieces of wood and started to bring them inside. He'd barely reached the front door when it flew open, rattling in its hinges as it bounced off the wall, and out stormed a fuming, red-faced Mr. McKinney. The cold air escaping from his nose made him look like an angry dragon, thought Davy as he stepped back. The minister glanced at him, threw a short salutation his way and stomped off into the snow.

"...the _nerve_ of that man!" Rachel was muttering under her breath as Davy let himself in. "Oh - finally, here's the firewood. Put one in the stove now, Davy, quick, before the embers fizz off and become completely useless."

"Nice visit with the minister?" asked Davy, struggling to prevent a smirk from forming on his face.

"That man is no minister - he's a crackpot! A hooligan! Would you believe he-"

Mrs Lynde stopped short, startled by a noise. Davy blinked - he recognized that noise. He knew it well, had even been the cause of it more than his fair share, but had given up hope of ever hearing it again. Both Davy and Rachel rushed to the kitchen to confirm with their eyes what their ears had told them:

Marilla.

Laughing.

Davy dropped the pile of wood and approached the beloved woman. "Auntie Marilla?" he asked quietly, cautiously covering her hand with his.

"She- she called-" Marilla choked between chortles. "Rachel, you - you called him - a heathen idiot! The _minister!"_

"Well," Mrs. Lynde began carefully - when had she ever started anything carefully? Davy asked himself. "I do pride myself in speaking my mind."

This made Marilla laugh all the harder, and when she squeezed Davy's hand, he joined in as well. Rachel did her best to hide her smile, and announced that she would prepare the tea until they stopped behaving like jungle monkeys, which sent Marilla further into hysteria. Davy wiped her tears of laughter and smiled: the gloom was over. His mother figure wasn't all better yet, but she would be.


	10. Sin and Salvation

The facade of Our Lady of Sorrows was magnificent, and the interior didn't disappoint. Gold leaf, marble, ornate keystones, colorful tainted glass - the entire structure was a celebration of opulence. This was Anne's favorite part of roman catholic mass - there was a wealth of beauty to stare at.

Her least favorite part was the length of service. Two hours was an awfully long time to sit still - a sentiment which was shared by many in attendance. It wasn't only the number of bored faces that shocked her: old people falling asleep, mothers scolding wriggling children, men picking dirt from under their nails.

The organ started playing again, and Anne breathed in deeply. The music here rivaled the decorations in glory - nothing like the bare, white walls and simple hymns she'd become accustomed to. Everything she'd seen and heard today was beautiful, even the enormous cross up in front that held Jesus, carved out of some sort of glossy stone. The sculpture was complete with blood oozing from his wounds, a crown of thorns digging into his forehead and tears on his cheeks, and he was so thin that his skin stretched thinly over his ribs. It was morbid and splendid.

Rustling around her made her aware of the people surrounding her once again - they were standing from the pews and shuffling into the aisle. Apparently, mass was over. Dr. Lebrun, who'd been sitting at her right, inclined his head, and she followed him up to the front of the church, where the priest seemed to be giving instructions to a group of young men in navy blue and white robes. Anne and the doctor waited until the priest nodded and retreated, and the men dispersed. One spotted them, smiled and walked over.

"Pierre! It's good to see you," he said with a big smile and a warm hand to the shoulder. "Thank you for driving all the way up here."

"It was a beautiful service," said Dr. Lebrun. "Thank you for agreeing to see us - I know Sundays are quite busy for you."

The young man shook his head. "Only in the mornings. My afternoons are wide open, as you well know."

"How true. This is Thomas, by the way," the doctor said, turning to her. "Thomas, Anne."

"Pleased to meet you," the young Thomas said, flashing his radiant set of teeth her way, and that was when she realized that this man - no, not a man, a _boy_ \- was the deacon they'd come to see. What in the world had the doctor been thinking, setting her up with a child?

Unable to articulate a reply, Anne merely nodded. Seemingly unfazed by her rudeness, young Thomas deepened his smile and returned the nod, then turned back to Dr. Lebrun to make plans for tea later that afternoon. No older than twenty years old, Anne estimated, based on the smoothness of his dimpled cheeks (were deacons allowed to shave?). His jet black hair had sprung in glossy waves, and his pale blue eyes sparkled with the excitement of youth. The fact that he still carried a bit of puppy fat, as well as his height (or lack thereof) didn't do much to vouch for his maturity.

"...sounds just fine by me. Anne?"

Startled by the doctor's voice, she looked up to see both of them looking at her expectantly. What could she say?

"It's a good thing you're the verbal type, Thomas," teased the doctor. "You may find yourself doing most of the talking today."

"I'm sure we'll get along fine, then," the boy answered jovially. "We'll see you at the parlor when we're finished. Anne, shall we?"

After assuring Dr. Lebrun that she would be fine, Anne followed the deacon through an exit behind the altar, into what appeared to be an office. A magnificent purple velvet padded armchair behind a carved desk stood by a long window, and shelves that went wall-to-wall were packed with beautiful volumes of books. In each upper corner of the room hung four illuminated by tulip-shaped gas lamps, made of blown glass. A ready fire crackled in the inbuilt fireplace, casting a warm glow on the regal green carpet that covered the hard wood floor.

"Pretty neat, eh? Father Borden is letting us meet in his study as long as we need."

"Well, I can certainly understand why you'd want to become a priest," was all Anne could think of saying. Thomas threw his head back and guffawed like a child.

"The benefits are tantalising, yes, but outweighed by far by the burdens. Why don't we sit by the fire? It gets drafty in here."

She was surprised when he pulled a second, narrower armchair from the dark corner of the room, and even more surprised when he gestured her toward it, choosing to perch himself on the matching foot rest. "Thank you," she mumbled, finally recovering some of her manners.

He shrugged good naturedly, used a poker to rearrange the burning logs, then turned his full attention onto her. "Pierre mentioned that you had questions about doctrine."

Funny, after all this time, she'd never thought to ask the doctor for his first name. _Still surprised by your selfishness?_ chided the nagging voice inside her head that refused to let her be at peace with herself. She ignored it and straightened in her seat. "Yes. Questions. I would like to learn- that is, in catholicism..."

The words she'd so carefully put together, the detached tone she'd practiced in front of the looking glass, the sentences and she'd rehearsed in her head incessantly on the long drive, were all erased from her mind in one clear swoop of panic. Anne took a long breath and ignored the quivering in her stomach.

"I would like to know," she began again in a slower and lower voice, "whether there are different types of sinners."

The boy cocked his head to the side, giving him the air of a young pup. "Types of sinners?"

"I know you have absolution, so that even non-catholics might be relieved of their trespasses before death, but what I'm asking is...for the souls that are more tarnished than others: do they need deeper forgiveness? Is there a limit? Is nothing unforgivable?"

Thomas fixed her with a stare so sharp, so deep and knowing, that Anne's heart seized in fear: she'd said too much, was too transparent. He could see through her, how dark and horrible she was.

Finally, he spoke: "You are asking whether graver sinners are in need of more forgiveness to be granted access to heaven." Anne gave him a quick nod. He breathed out. "It's not quite that simple. Receiving absolution is only one part of the process. To catholics, grace will be bestowed only upon the truly repentent souls."

"So there is a difference at birth?" she pressed on. "Or can one force a soul to be truly repentent?"

"Of course no soul can be forced into anything," said Thomas, his returning smile softening the boyish features of his face once again. "We do believe that all men are born equal, and so with an equal capacity for sin. God presents us each with several paths in life, it is up to us to choose which one to take. The further we deviate from the virtue, the steeper the path of redemption."

"But what if that path to redemption is too steep? What if it's impossible?"

"Then you ask for help. Which is where I come in, I'm guessing."

When she said nothing to confirm or deny his assumption, he spoke again, using his gentlest voice. "No sinner is beyond redemption, Anne."

"What god would forgive me, when I cannot forgive myself?"

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Thomas shuddered. The last time he'd seen anyone so desolate, their neck had ended up in a noose of their own making. He'd forgiven his mother in the end, but having witnessed at a young age how far one could be pushed by despair, he'd vowed to reach out to those in pain as much as possible. Religious dedication would allow him to do so at a large scale, and he devoted himself to the congregation, striving for selflessness and benevolence.

For the most part, it had been easy. He loved the church, looked up to his superiors, thrived when focusing on other people's problems. Feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, caring for the lonely, soothing the restless - he was fulfilling his christian duty.

Or so he thought. Now, with this woman on the verge of losing hope before him, he was brought back to a conversation he'd had with Father Borden when he'd expressed his desire to become a deacon. _Priesthood will not benefit you,_ his role model had said gravely _. What we do here, we do for others. As a surgeon cannot operate on himself, we cannot absolve ourselves. I have no doubt in your integrity,_ he hurried to say when Thomas opened his mouth to protest. _Man is simply unable to be his own savior. Whatever demons haunt us, it will be up to someone else to save us._

At the time, he'd assured Father Borden that his motivations were altruistic. Now he understood: all these years of throwing himself at the service of desperate people had been a cloak, hiding his own despair. He hadn't been able to stop his mother from taking her own life, and so he'd tried to redeem himself. And of course, Father Borden had been right. He couldn't redeem himself, and priesthood would not bring him any closer to forgiveness.

As these terrifying realisations altered the core of his being, it occurred to him that this was the worst possible time to be stewing in an identity crisis. His mother was long gone, and the woman in front of him needed to be saved. So he did what he was trained to do, but for the first time, he did it in a truly selfless way.

"Anne," he said with a confidence bestowed upon him by his maker. "God will forgive you. All you need to do is confess."


	11. Truths

Toronto was full of people. Even late on a Sunday evening, the streets were bustling with buggies, carts, horses, pedestrians. It was easy to lose oneself in the noisy crowd. In fact, it was perfect for Gilbert. He was a still a country boy at heart, and often yearned for his family's land in Avonlea: Right now, though, the city was exactly what he needed. The busy people provided him with a shroud of anonymity, and to be honest, it was plain good to not have anyone mind him, or his behavior, or his appearance. People at home would be appalled - blasphemous, to carry on as such on the Sabbath! But it was any big city mentality, as far as he could tell from experience.

Wellington Lane was easy enough to find. Any idiot with a map could follow the alley off of the main drag. Locating the specific building, however, was a different matter. The lack of daylight made reading the street numbers (or anything else) near impossible in the dark alley. Gilbert kept going from one end to the other, wondering how he could possibly have missed it. 38 Wellington Lane was a barbershop that had closed up on his first stride down the road; 39 Wellington Lane, a residence; then, there was an ominous looking boarding house, a double building called Denny's Tavern, a tailor (also closed), and an unmarked building; 45 Wellington Lane was the next numbered building, and it seemed to be some sort of shady den.

He knew he hadn't gotten the address wrong. Seven crumpled notes in his breast pocket could attest to that. It seemed that this would be as far as he would get without human interaction, and that seeing as the tavern was the only place open at this hour, he had no choice.

Once inside, he realized his mistake. He'd come looking for an office, at an address that didn't exist, and had ended up in an ale house. His mind had been so firmly set that he'd taken his buggy to the clinic straight after church, and used his office to send a wire to this Ms. J. Gitman.

 _ARRIVING IN TORONTO ON TRAIN 5:17. MEET AT PUBLISHING HOUSE. GBLYTHE_

In the time it had taken to call Susan, Di and sort through some work messages, he'd already received a reply:

 _MY OFFICE. ASK AT FRONT DESK. JGITMAN_

That would teach him to engage in phony correspondences. From his office straight to the train station, and on the first train out, still wearing his Sunday suit...

Feeling like the idiot he obviously was, Gilbert assessed his surroundings. From the inside, it was like any other tavern. There was laughter, music, a slightly-higher-than-acceptable volume of chatter. Men smoked, drank, laughed, played cards. A huge fire roared from a pit by the bar. In the far corner, a fiddler and a piper of sorts played a jig, while a couple of old men danced, gleefully inebriated.

Stealing himself for being stared at, Gilbert approached the barkeep, who was carelessly drying thick glass mugs.

"Excuse me," he said, cursing the impeccable upbringing forced upon him. Those two words were enough to make anyone suspicious in a place like this. Nonetheless, he went on: "I'm looking for a J. Gitman? Of the Denver's Publishing House? 42 Wellington Lane?"

 _Well done, Blythe,_ he mocked himself. _Smooth as butter._ The thick man raised an eyebrow at him, and turned his attention straight back to the glass he'd been polishing.

"Never heard of no Publishing House. Denver's meself - go by Denny 'mongst friends, but seeing as you ain't, don't bother. As for 42 Wellington Lane, you're standing in it."

 _Of course,_ Gilbert sighed. _This would be my luck._ "And J. Gitman?" he pressed outloud. The barkeep sighed in turn, to convey the inconvenience, and yelled across the room: "OY! LARRY!"

"AYE?" came the reply from a far away booth. There was no escape - he was stuck here, and now he'd drawn attention to himself. Several conversations paused to see what the commotion was about.

"JULIANA'S NAME - IS IT GITMAN?"

Maybe he could create a diversion - shatter a drinking glass on the floor. Maybe he could make it out the door before anyone could catch him, and blend right back into the streets. Maybe-

"WHY WOULD I CARE ABOUT HER NAME?"

 _Anywhere but here. I'd rather be anywhere but here right now. Back at home, dealing with Mr. Yorke's toenail fungus. In the hospital, studying an aggravated case of yeast infection. Anywhere but here._

"Will you two idiots keep it down? I'm Juliana Gitman."

The lady sitting close to Larry had a strong voice, and she knew how to use it without screaming. A tan woman, with long, wavy black hair and painted red lips, she beckoned at him to join her at the otherwise empty booth.

Gilbert removed his hat and sat, exhausted by the display, and his time on the road.

"You're late, I was starting to think you wouldn't come. Denny, two gins."

"None for me, thank you." he bit out. "Who are you? Where is Anne?"

She didn't reply, but scrutinized him with deep forest green eyes.

"Is this your idea of a joke? Tell me! Where is my wife?" he glanced around furtively.

"She's not here."

"Then where is she? And what are we doing here? Is she alright?"

It was an excruciating five seconds before the woman half nodded. "She's in a safe place, in very good care."

The relief he felt at hearing that she might be fine was quickly washed over by a strong wave of jealousy. The idea of someone else caring for her made his hands shake.

For this reason, when the barkeep delivered their drinks, Gilbert seized his and downed about a third of it in a hasty gulp. The alcohol set his mouth on fire and burned all the way up to his nose, leading a scorching trail down his throat and to his chest. He could hear Mrs. Spurgeon's angry voice after she'd caught teenage versions of him, Moody and Charlie with a bottle of brandy they'd "borrowed" from Mr. Sloane's cabinet: _Liquid courage is a falsehood of the devil!_

Well, it pretty was appropriate, because he was definitely in hell. Gilbert toasted Mrs. Spurgeon in his mind, and took another large swig. The burn was less pronounced this time, but the taste just as foul.

"Please - tell me where Anne is."

"I will. But first, you have to tell me: why did she leave?"

Gilbert ran his fingers through his hair, retrieving a handful of pomade. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be here chasing any and every loose lead in Canada." He wiped his greasy palm on his Sunday pants (Susan would scold him for that later) and slouched in his seat. "I don't know. She didn't tell me. I guess her leaving was a statement." Unaccustomed to drinking as he was, the gin was already affecting his senses. His incoherent ramblings, however, seemed to be what the lady wanted to hear.

"Seems fine enough by me," she said, standing up. "Only next time, sweetie, do give me more of a warning. I see better when I know what I'm looking for."

His head was swimming. Nothing was making sense. Was it possible he'd gotten drunk so fast? He wasn't even halfway through his drink...

"I wanted your honest opinion. If you think he's good for it, I'll take it from here." The speaker, who had been sitting at the table behind them, stood now beside her.

"Will you be coming home tonight? Tricey made pot roast."

"Don't wait up for me. Thanks, Ma."

The woman planted a rather familiar kiss on his cheek, and the newcomer took her seat. A man, probably in his mid-thirties, with a five o'clock shadow and green eyes that gleamed from under the brim of a well-used hat. His dusty gray jacket had seen better days as well, completing the look of a typical pub dweller. The two men facing each other couldn't have appeared to be more different.

"Your mother?" croaked Gil dumbly. He had no idea why he'd asked that - not that it seemed to matter, since the feeling of falling down a rabbit hole hadn't subsided the slightest.

The man nodded slowly. "She's a good judge of character. Doesn't miss much."

Gilbert grit his teeth. "You were checking me out."

"Ah, don't be sour. You checked out fine, for her." The subtext was clear: _but not necessarily for me._

"So, are you going to tell me where she is?"

Infuriatingly enough, the man leaned back in his chair in lieu of answering, eyeing him like a tomcat might consider a sparrow. "You haven't asked how I know her."

This prompted Gilbert to empty what was left in his tumbler in one swift motion. The fire barely registered in his throat this time. "I'm not sure I want to know," he admitted honestly despite himself. He'd made the green eyes soften a touch - and what was worse, he didn't care that the stranger sitting across from him, withholding Anne's whereabouts, pitied him.

Jack sighed. He wanted to hate Gilbert Blythe, to see him as a selfish man, an uncaring husband. Instead, he saw a pathetic fool, a poor oaf whose wife had left him and his children.

He sat up and leaned across the table. _This isn't about you,_ he reminded himself. _It's about Anne, and what's best for her._ He extended a hand to the wreck of a man and raised his chin. "The name's Garrison."

"Am I supposed to care?" Gilbert had found the remedy for good manners: gin. He was now as crude as he'd ever dared to be. Apparently, this amused the Garrison fellow. Good for him.

"So, Blythe. How badly do you want to find her?"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

 _All you have to do is confess._

Anne had been dreading this moment for a long time now. She knew she couldn't avoid it, that her past would catch up with her sooner or later. Young Thomas had made it sound so simple. Just open your mouth, say the words, and God will forgive.

Although she was frankly quite desperate, some things were simply beyond forgiveness. She was knew this in her heart. Looking up, Anne looked up at the two men in the room, who had been waiting in silence for a while, now. Unable to confide to the boy she'd only just met without support, she'd asked for Dr. Lebrun to join them. An altar boy had been sent to fetch the doctor, and had returned within the hour.

Anne's gaze went from Dr. Lebrun's eyes to the deacon's. Both pairs were sympathetic, concerned on her behalf. The doctor's also held a certain affection for her - how soon would it vanish altogether when she admitted the truth? How horrible would it be to lose another friend?

Still, it had to be done. Ignoring the frightened anticipation on Young Thomas's face and the doctor's undeserved kindness, she spoke facing straight ahead, eyes unfocused.

"I killed a man."

She'd expected outrage. Gasping, screaming, a frenzy. Instead, there was silence. A crushing silence that weighed on her shoulders. She endured it until it became unbearable, and continued. "It wasn't an accident - not really. I was young, but I knew what I was doing, and I knew it was wrong. I-" she stuttered to a stop, when a soft hand was laid on her cold, shaking ones.

"Dear child, how long have you been carrying this burden?" asked the doctor. His eyes were as gentle as his voice - if anything they seemed more open.

"Since I was seven. Or six, I don't know."

Thomas spoke next: "Can you tell us what happened?"

"It was snowing outside. The man whose family I was boarding with - he was coming home late at night. Everyone else was sleeping by the stove, except me - my place was closer to the door, it was cold, so I couldn't sleep. I knew when he'd come back, he'd do -things. That would wake the children, and the Mrs. would get cross. I didn't want that to happen, so I-" she gulped past the enormous lump in her throat, and made herself continue. "I closed the deadbolt. He couldn't get in, and starting banging and screaming. They didn't hear that - or when he broke the window with his fist. Only then he stopped yelling. They found him dead the next morning."

There. It was done. Anne felt no sense of closure, no great relief, no dread spreading through her. She felt nothing. Through her numbness, it took several minutes before she realized that the doctor had spoken again.

"Anne, I'm going to tell you something that might surprise you." His fingers came under her chin to gently tip her face up so that their eyes connected. "I want you to listen to me carefully, alright?" She blinked. He looked straight through to her soul.

What he said next, two simple sentences made up of eight simple words, shattered her in a thousand tears.


	12. Tilted Axis

Anne sat up straighter. Dawn's icy gust of wind pushed at her face, doing its best to suffocate her. Instead of yielding and heading back inside, she braced herself against it. It made her feel - well, not good. But not bad, either. Alive, perhaps? Whatever it was, it made her feel _something_ other than devastated and that in itself was a welcome change.

Yesterday's events had left her drowning in a sea of her own emotions. Thomas and Dr. Lebrun had stayed with her as she exhausted her tear ducts. This had taken up the better part of the afternoon. When the sobs had been reduced to dry hiccups, Dr. Lebrun had held her shoulders firmly, forcing her to face him, and said: _"You were a child. It wasn't your fault."_

Two small sentences. Four words each, nine syllables total, that had thrown her completely for a loop. Unable to answer, what with her world being turned upside down, Anne had breathed in and blinked. Young Thomas, sweet, young Thomas felt poorly for not being of much help at all, and asked whether she would care for anything - a cup of tea? Or, if she needed it, he could sneak whatever sacramental wine was left over from the service. His seemingly genuine offer sent her into peels of laughter, which soon turned hysterical, bringing on more tears when she'd thought it impossible.

The deacon had then bolted from the office, and the Doctor waited until she'd calmed down (again) to expand on his former statement. She listened, but even the avid student in her couldn't follow his reasoning. Still, she listened, feeling a bit like a dunce, until Thomas returned with a fresh cloth for her face (she'd already worked through his own and both of Dr. Lebrun's) and asked if there was anything he could do. Both men were taken aback when she asked whether they could still visit the tea room. Was she really up to being in public? Would she not rather lie down for a bit, then hit the road?

 _"Please,"_ Anne had begged. _"This day has been crazy._ I _'ve been crazy. Could we please,_ please _do something normal?"_ The men exchanged skeptical glances, but she'd insisted; they'd taken up nearly all of poor Thomas's free time, and she had interrupted Dr. Lebrun's tea earlier, surely he would need a cup or two before their drive back. She promised to behave, and that she truly was through with crying (for the time being).

And so, short of reasons to decline her request, the trio found themselves seated around a small round table in a parlor downtown. Tea was poured, accompanied by scones and mundane chitchat about the young man's studies and the older man's work. Anne didn't add much to the conversation, but she appeared to be doing well, considering the earlier turmoil. The evening grew darker, Thomas walked his visitors back to their buggy.

Before he could help her up, Anne laid a hand on the young lad's arm, meeting his gorgeous blue eyes with a weak smile, conveying her thanks. The boy shrugged sheepishly - he'd done nothing but prod and poke, and watch her bawl. Still, she was glad to have met him, and grateful for his support. They said their goodbyes and started the buggy. The ride back was mostly quiet, interrupted only twice by Dr. Lebrun's suggestion that they pull over (the first time just to stretch their legs, the second for a meal at a roadside inn).

Anne had taken advantage of the lack of conversation then to try and process what Dr. Lebrun had said, but she couldn't get past the two sentences, eight words.

 _"It wasn't your fault."_ But it was, really. She'd knowingly, and by choice, locked the door.

 _"You were a child."_ So she was, and when had that ever been an excuse for anything? How did that make this any better?

 _"It wasn't your fault."_ If not hers, then whose fault was it a man died in the cold, bleeding out on the snow, alone?

 _"You were a child."_ No, she was an orphan. Children were the responsibilities of their parents. Orphans were responsible for themselves.

Even when they'd arrived at his house, and he'd made up the sofa for her (he found it prudent to keep her close, and told her to spend the night in his study instead of in her room at the Ulaafsens'), the same eight words, nine syllables, cycling through her mind.

 _"You were a child."_ Let's face it, she was still a child. Denied membership to the great club of Adulthood, always an outsider, a small child in a grown woman's body.

 _"It wasn't your fault."_ It was her fault. She didn't want it to be. It was, though.

 _"You were a child."_ Or, maybe she'd never really been a child. Just a very immature person, whose stunted development began at infancy.

He'd offered to stay up with her, but she'd declined, told him to go rest, she'd see him in the morning. Hadn't slept.

Sometime before sunrise - 4? 5 o'clock? - other fragments of Dr. Lebrun's discourse started to come back to her, and they started to make sense. So much, that she'd abandoned the pretence of resting, donned her coat, and sat outside wrapped in a blanket. The sun rose to keep her company, the wind kept her very, very awake, and by the time the sky had lightened, she stood up. Abandoning the warmth of the blanket, she walked down to inspect her plot at the sides of the house. A thin layer of frost covered the bare earth. Nothing had grown yet, but her vigilant weeding habits seemed to have paid off. After the winter was over, she would see whether her work might come to fruition.

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Consciousness started nagging at Gilbert, and he did his best to ignore it. But try as he might, his senses were slowly coming back to him. All his muscles ached, the way they might after a full day of rowing. He tried to sit up, but his abdominal muscles seemed to have been overworked as well. Somehow flopping over, he managed to get his sore arms under him and push himself up off the hard wooden surface. The effort of sitting up made him breathe hard through a burning throat.

"Well. Look who's finally up. Have a nice nap, Princess?"

A groan escaped him as his stomach churned. When had he gotten so sick? Sure, he'd been sleeping far too little, and his energy level had been fairly depleted as of late, but this was more than just a few restless nights' toll. Maybe influenza?

Two tight grips around his upper arms tugged him upwards, along with the command: "Come on, off the floor with you!" and he was on his feet (more or less). His head throbbed mildly with every step. He raised a shaky hand to his brow. Clammy, but not overheated. So, not the flu: didn't feel like a cold, either.

"Move, will you? I'm not carrying you all the way. Though, the speed at which you're going, I might be tempted to drag you by ankles."

Finally, Gilbert cracked an eye open - just one - to see who the speaker was, who was still holding him up.

"Urgh, you," he croaked. The sight of Jack Garrison made him cringe and shut his eyes.

"Nice to see your lovely mug as well," said Garrison's sarcastic's voice. "Now let's get a move on."

"Why does it feel like I was thrown off a horse and run over by a carriage?" Gilbert moaned as he was being guided out the door.

"Let's just say that last bit of gin helped you channel your inner grizzly."

Too foggy to make any sense of the Garrison's reply, Gilbert focused instead on getting one feet in front of the other. The cold air on his face felt almost pleasant, but the effect was ruined when the arms supporting him let go without warning: he scrambled for a way to keep his balance, his arms settling on a fence beside him. It seemed he only had enough energy to either move or keep the nausea at bay, so he concentrated on the latter.

"Alright, Blythe, time to wake up." Before he could answer that he was just about as 'up' as he could manage, a wet blast to the face shocked the breath out of him.

"Augh!" Gilbert sputtered as he wiped his eyes clear. Garrison stood smirking at him, an empty pail dangling tauntingly from his hand. "What in the world was that for?!" Gilbert bellowed.

"Figured you could use some help waking up."

"I _am_ awake, you cretin!" He pushed dripping wet hair off his forehead, more than a bit annoyed. The icy water trickled down his neck, seeping into his collar. "You just wanted to throw something at me," he accused, flicking freezing drops from his fingers.

Garrison's infuriating smirk stretched into an unbearably smug grin. "Alright, I did. And now that you're upright, we can get you clean: you smell like something that belongs in a barn."

Humiliating as it was, bathing might have been impossible without help. His entire body was sore and bruised, and the nausea had left of its own accord - all over Garrison's feet (Gilbert did apologize, but saying he didn't find _some_ satisfaction in the accident would be a lie) - only to be replaced by a massive headache. The pounding in his cranium seemed to increase as memories from the previous night returned in short snippets.

Before the haze had descended, Garrison had claimed to know Anne's location, and refusing to disclose it (he'd promised she was still in Canada). Gilbert had pleaded, gotten mad, then begged, and then threatened again, but Garrison hadn't budged, saying he had to 'check with someone' before speaking of her any further, whatever that meant.

After that, his memory was spotty. He vaguely remembered feeling stuck in that awful tavern, in that awful town, and thinking that ordering another drink was the best course of action. Then a third...being shoved, and shoving back...another drink. Chairs scraping the floor...some screaming...had there been a brawl?

"Oh yeah, there was. And you started it." Gilbert paused, the razor hovering in the air as he checked Garrison's sincerity over his shoulder in the mirror. "You bumped into Ike - you know, the big, burly one - and called him a heavy-arsed imbecile."

Though it was completely out of character, he did recall said interaction. He also recalled 'Ike' facilitating the bumping, and paying him a compliment of the similar kind, all but inviting him to throw the first punch. Gilbert had cracked the knuckles on his right hand doing so, and now carried a blueish-purple souvenir of the aftermath on the very cheek he was shaving.

"It turned into a pileup after that," Garrison continued. "Rather trashed the place. I doubt Denny'll let you back in after all that."

"Like I'd want to set foot in a place like that again," Gilbert grumbled, moving his mouth as little as possible, so as not to disturb the blade at his lip. Still, propriety caught up to him. "I'll go over to reimburse him for the damage, when I'm done shaving. And then, you're going to take me to...wherever my wife is." Was it him, or did Garrison actually look sheepish just now?

"About that," he dragged out the syllables, scratching his neck. "I made a telephone call this morning. Things are...she's not ready."

"She said that?" Gilbert set the razor down, stunned, his heart hammering. "You spoke to her?"

Now Garrison looked downright flustered. "Not directly, no. There's - someone - well, it's complicated. She's in good hands," he added hurriedly, even a touch defensively. "In the best place possible. The timing just isn't right."

Gilbert stood straight and glowered as authoritatively as he could while wiping shaving foam from his face with a washrag. He felt just about ready to explode. "I am going to find my wife, with or without you. The best possible place for her is at home, with her husband and children." He couldn't stand the way his own voice wavered at the end of his statement, or the way Garrison's eyes softened with pity.

"Come on, man. You know it ain't so." Gilbert fought against the tears burning behind his eyelids. Vomiting, being thrown across the room and blacking out in front of this man was acceptable: crying wasn't.

"How is this the best for her?" he asked through a tight throat. "How could she just leave our boys without saying anything? Without a single care of what might happen to them? Of what might happen to..."

To Garrison's credit, he kept his averted while Gilbert's misery escaped through his eyes. He was sick of crying. Sick of worrying, sick of doubting everything.

Sick of himself.

"I know it means nothing coming from me, but she felt immense remorse over the children," said Garrison gently. "They never left her thoughts - she was torn up by what she'd done." He sighed, then spoke firmly: "I'll place another call, but I can't guarantee anything. If she's not ready, we will wait. Are your children alright for the present?"

"Of course," Gilbert bristled, blowing his nose in the foamy washrag. "They're with their godmother, who adores them and cares for them."

"Then I'll see what I can do. But we will keep Anne's best interest - and Anne's alone - in mind as we go along. Do you understand?"

"I always have. Or at least, I thought I did."

Garrison raised an eyebrow at his pathetic tone, then nodded and exited the room.


	13. Travel and Correspondence

It was official: Gilbert Blythe had reached a new low. The relentless headache and lingering nausea made him weak and dull-minded. His face was poorly shaven and remarkably bruised. His clothes were ripped and sullied with blood, sweat, dirt and who knew what else, and while. The glaze over his eyes completed the homeless street bum look.

Worse yet, he was being driven (to a destination yet unknown) to see his wife (whom he hadn't be able to locate on his own) by another man (who had known her intimately).

Sure, Garrison had sworn that 'nothing like that happened'. The night before, he'd taken great pleasure in taunting him with all sorts of innuendos, twisting the knife in all directions. Today, though, he was doing his best to assure Gilbert of his wife's virtue. He wasn't sure which was worse.

The vague allusions and hinting euphemisms had hurt the most. In those, he heard the voiced opinions of his colleagues, patients, the whole blasted community. They insulted both his wife - odd-looking, flighty woman, unworthy of their good standing - and his inability to keep his wife.

On the other hand, Garrison's pity made him feel even more terrible. Even if the man hadn't laid a finger on Anne (and the jury was still out on that one), the fact remained that he _had_ gotten close to his wife. Whatever it was she needed and hadn't received from Gilbert, she'd gotten from Garrison. She'd kept her own husband in the dark as to her whereabouts, but gladly gone gallivanting around the country with this strange man she'd only known for a matter of weeks. Even if the betrayal hadn't been physical, it had almost definitely taken place on an emotional, sentimental level. And mercy, that felt horrible.

Several times during the train ride, he found himself furiously wondering why he was bothering, going through all this to reconnect with a woman who obviously didn't want him in her life anymore (and maybe she never really had). If he were to be completely honest with himself, he was also afraid of how little she would care to see him now, and of the nature of her relationship with Jack. Ladies and Gentlemen, Gilbert J. Blythe was a true coward.

And when he wasn't busy fuming or cowering, he found himself tugged by such a keen sense of longing, it nearly resembled hope. Even through all the hurt and turmoil, she was still his Anne: his best friend, his partner in all things good and bad, the person who'd been closer to him than anyone, with the exception of his parents. She'd seen him at his best and at his worst, she'd known every inch of him without his clothes on. She'd carried his babies inside her. No matter what had been said or done, he would still gravitate towards her. He needed her by his side.

The conductor called their stop, and they stepped out. With few words exchanged between the two of them, they went to fetch Garrison's horse and the buggy, and hit the road once again.

-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-

 _Dear Joel,_

 _Please accept my sincerest apologies for not being able to come visit you when I was last in Toronto, my meeting ran much later than originally planned. I do hope we will be able to see each other next time I am in the area. Naturally, you are always welcome to stop by my place._

 _Do you recall the method we'd discussed at the annual conference in Montreal, regarding induced perception shifting? I am writing to tell you that I have tried it for the first time - and it worked! I asked [Patient 34] during a routine role reversal to combine the exercise with a time shift, and address a twenty year younger version of herself. The subject's response was quicker than I'd anticipated, and she was able to confront repressed memories of what I suspect might have been involuntary manslaughter committed during early childhood. Without going into too much detail regarding the case, Patient 34 had been holding herself accountable since then of all deaths around her, including her own parents, her first born child, as well as several childhood friends and adoptive guardians._

 _There was, as I am sure you are suspecting, a fair bit of hypnosis involved. You are aware of my aversion to any kind of chemical intervention, and under no circumstance would I ever try it on a patient of my own, but I must admit to being curious to know whether a sedative might not help the process along._ _Of course, we must not get ahead of ourselves. While promising, the results are to be considered inconclusive until the method is tested on more subjects._

 _Even so, do you realize what this means? Please indulge me while I come off as self-congratulatory, I know you will understand when I say that the advances of our field never cease to amaze me._

 _I hope all is well, and that we may get together soon to discuss this further. Please send Marthe my fondest regards. Until we meet again, I remain yours,_

 _Pierre Lebrun_

 _P.S.: Proofreading this letter, I realize the implications made in the second paragraph are dire. I am still a man of honor, and stay on the right side of official justice (no, I have not forgotten this lesson, dear friend)._ _Please rest assured that I am convinced beyond doubt of Patient 34's innocence in the matter of law._


	14. Driving with rage

Jack was extremely relieved when the buggy finally took a turn onto the lane, the only large drag in the borough. They would reach their destination in five minutes, and then he would be able to walk far away from this fiasco. Shame quickly followed the relief: Anne hadn't done anything wrong. For all her character faults and bad decisions, she was probably the closest to being blameless in this mess.

 _Good ol' Jack,_ the guys at the office would say, _always chasing tail,_ and they were right. He hadn't meant to get involved - he wasn't a busybody, and didn't do complicated. Sure, he was a sucker for women. Yet, so unlike the sensual, buxom wildcats who'd called out at him with voices gravelly from smoking (he'd enjoyed the company of such a dame on several occasions), Anne was delicate and prim, without a clue as to the art of seduction. It should have annoyed him, but there was also something about her that was incredibly enticing: some spunk in her subdued character, a sharpness to her fragility, a hidden strength to bite back. The combination was intoxicating, like salted caramel: savory and sweet, dangerously addictive. If she'd been dealt a different hand in life, she would have had been one of those perfect, untouchable women, the kind mere mortals only dreamed of.

 _Wrong on two counts, Jack. You_ do _dream of her, and she_ _is the very definition of_ _untouchable. Remember her husband? that bloke sitting next to you, slumped over like a sorry sack of gravel?  
_

It had been easier before meeting him in person: he'd imagined a big, burly bear of guy, an oaf with a rounded pouch where his stomach used to be, who put his muddy shoes up on the furniture, and spat tobacco on the pristine floor. Then he'd found out he was a doctor: not an oaf, then. An older man - a father figure who enjoyed her youth a little too much. After a bit of research, though, he'd discovered that Dr. Blythe was Anne's senior by only three years. It was harder to imagine her married to an ugly young doctor, but surely he had his share of bad traits, why else would she have left him? An arrogant, work-obsessed man who felt superior to her: bossed her around, expected her to tend to his every need.

He couldn't have been more wrong. Dr. Blythe was nothing more than a poor clueless fellow whose wife had left him. If he'd neglected her, even hurt her, Gilbert had no idea what it was he'd done. The man couldn't harm a fly. Jack smirked: he doubted Gilbert remembered what had transpired after bumping into Ike back at the tavern. Ike had spent the next ten minutes introducing Blythe to his right fist. And the good doctor had apologized to everyone with whom he'd collided in the process, including a table and a couple stools.

So, the man was gentle, didn't have a mean bone in his body. And, on a regular day, he was likely to be a good looking man. He saw the way the doctor's suit laid slightly too slack: with his tall frame, his build must be athletic, though recent weight loss made him seem frail and lank. His dull, tired eyes might usually sparkle with that quality women called 'dreamy', and the frayed bird's nest on top of his head had been slicked into dark, glossy waves when they'd first met. With some rest, a good meal and a better shave, he would be handsome. Of course Anne would be completely smitten with him, he thought with a twinge of disgust, who wouldn't?

Oh, it wasn't low self-esteem: Jack was aware of his own attributes. He had rugged good looks, bright eyes that twinkled with fun and mischief, and a suave grin that made ladies puddle inside. One wink, and they were putty in his hands.

Well, he wasn't interested in that kind of encounter anymore. Because of _her_. Breathing hard through his nose, he forced his temper (and other emotions he didn't feel like pondering) to the side, and spoke: "We're nearly there: fourth house on the left." He'd thought of this information as a piece of good news, but instead of rejoicing, Blythe turned even paler. Ah, well. All would be well soon. The prince would be reunited with his princess, and they would ride off together, and stay happily married ever after. And Jack would shake off this crazy infatuation once and for all, and go back to his life.

When Dr. Lebrun stepped out of the house to greet them, though, he sensed that something was amiss. Gilbert jumped out of the buggy before Dickens had stopped, and ran up to the house. By the time Jack had parked and joined them, the discussion had already gotten heated.

"What do you mean, she's not here?" yelled Gilbert. "What did you people do to her?"

"Dr.?" Both men turned around, but Lebrun was the one whom Jack was addressing. "What's going on?"

"You just missed Anne. She left this morning."


	15. Nighttime and bedtime

**Apologies, dear readers! Just corrected the typos in this chapter. Sorry about that! Thanks for reading :D**

Anne shifted in her seat, trying for a position in which she might be able to rest a bit. The train would go throughout the night, which was fine. Actually, she quite liked it. Being on the road had always felt like the safest place to be - second to Green Gables, once she'd gotten used to it.

For once, though, the road wasn't an escape. She'd been safe under the Doctor's care, and with the Ulaafsens. A twinge of guilt passed through her at the thought of the taciturn, kind hearted family who'd taken her in. She'd left them a small note, and hoped they wouldn't be too offended.

The letter she'd left Dr. Lebrun was a bit longer. She'd worded it extremely carefully, and hoped fervently that he would understand. How wonderful he'd been with her, how much she'd learned...One day, she would repay him. And Jack. There were many people she would have to answer to, but right now, she had somewhere to be: someone important to see.

dbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdbdb

Jem liked bedtime at the Wrights'.

At first, he and Freddie were even allowed to share the bed, until crybaby Walter, who _always_ had to ruin _everything_ , had gone and complained having to sleep alone, and now he and Walter had to share the folding bed Uncle Fred had brought down from the attic. It didn't matter, though, sharing a room with his cousin was still loads of fun. Freddie was older than he was, and his war games were far better and more sophisticated than his. They'd wait after Auntie Di'd tucked them all in and fussed over them relentlessly, giving each of them a goodnight kiss and more fussing (well, alright, that part wasn't _so_ bad, but it was a bit embarrassing) - after she'd left the room, he'd count to twenty, then lean closer to Freddie's bed, and they'd talk in hushed whispers about soldiers and guns, strategy and battles. Sometimes they'd plan to pick up the discussion the next day after breakfast, though most of the time, they'd fall asleep mid-thought. The Wrights got up very in the morning to do chores.

Jem also liked mornings at the Wrights'. Getting up early was a challenge, but once up, he got to go help Uncle Fred with the cows and the horses. Back at home, all they had was chickens and only one horse. The Wrights had chickens, two horses, and a whole barn full of cows. Milking them was fun, especially after Freddie had shown him the right way to do it, and he also liked brushing the horses. Shovelling hay was less fun, but Uncle Fred let him and Freddie chat and play while they worked, as long as they got everything done before breakfast.

Jem liked breakfast at the Wrights' most of all. There was sausage, and eggs, and potatoes, and hot buns and preserves. Auntie Di would always let him have a second bun, heaping a generous serving of preserves on top, and smile at him in a way that made him feel warm inside.

He knew she wasn't his real aunt - she wasn't his father's sister, nor his mother's - but if he could choose, Auntie Di would be the perfect one. She was always smiley and sweet, and didn't raise her voice much or cry. She let him go on errands with Uncle Fred, whom he liked very much as well. She always made sure his clothes fit just right, tugging at his hems and cuffs - that part was annoying, but he liked the way she paid attention to how tall he was growing (nearly as tall as Freddie). He also liked that she punctuated every interaction with a pat and a kiss, just like an aunt should.

Jem sighed contently, turning his head on the big, fluffy pillow Auntie Di had just fluffed. He liked it here at the Wrights'.

bpdqbpdqbpdqbpdqbpdqbpdqbpdqbpdqbpdqbpdq

Three men occupied the dimly lit office: one stood by the telephone, waiting to be connected to a call, while the second paced restlessly from wall to wall, a very crumpled note in tow. The third ignored them both, and sat facing the fireplace, finishing his drink.

Jack refilled his glass, then tilted the bottle towards the other two with a questioning glance. Lebrun shook his head mutely, still waiting for an operator, and Blythe turned a slight shade of green. Fine by him: it was his turn to get drunk, anyway. He turned back to face the flames and savoured a small sip of the pale yellow liquid. It was the only thing in Lebrun's house strong enough for him - a gift from the Ulaafsens next door, labeled 'AKVAVIT' (which was probably swedish for 'you'll feel this in the morning'). Whatever it was, it certainly did the trick.

"This is a waste of time." Gilbert stopped in the middle of the room to glare at Garrison. "We should be on the road."

"For the last time, we are not driving anywhere as long as the roads are iced. And even if they weren't, we don't know for sure until the ticket booth at the train station reopens, and that's not for another-" he paused to consult his wristwatch, "-eleven hours. So do us a favor, Blythe, and stop wearing a hole in the floor."

There was little satisfaction in hearing the bitterness of Garrison's voice, but Gilbert would take what he could get. Not so fun worrying about where Anne might have disappeared to on her own, was it? Well, at least she'd left _him_ a note. That his wife would write in her note for Dr. Lebrun (if one could even call him a doctor) a thanks to Jack for 'all his help,' to ask him not to worry and that she would 'be in touch' but not even mention Gilbert once - simply slayed him.

Dr. Lebrun observed the two men with fascination. The operator had disconnected a while ago: he was merely using the receiver in his hand as a prop, something to give him the appearance of one who wasn't paying too much attention. Anne, who'd thought herself undesirable, now had two men worried to the nerve about her well being.

He was somewhat concerned as well, though not as much. Her mental condition had improved, and while she hadn't felt ready to face her family, she had chosen to move outside of the bounds of comfort, to go 'pay a visit long overdue'. The fact that she wanted to see anyone besides him and Jack Garrison was a positive development. He had a fair idea of where she might be - on this, all three men could agree - and if they were right, then she was at the very least in good hands. They would know more tomorrow - for now, he would sit back and watch.

qpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqpqp

Walter hated bedtime at the Wrights'.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He liked the part where Auntie Di would come and tuck 'her boys' in. He liked that she said goodnight to Freddie and Jem first, so that she could spend a little more time saying goodnight with him. Her hand would rest on his cheek, and she would make her voice quiet, like a lullaby, and she would ask him if he was doing alright. If he wasn't, she would listen to his troubles and console him, but lately, he'd taken to saying he was fine so as not to worry her. Still, she would often spend an extra minute to brush his hair with her fingers, tell him of all the nice things they might do the next day, and kiss his brow, and cheeks, and nose, before bidding him goodnight and closing the door. Her footsteps would barely reach the bottom of the stairs before Jem would flip over, sticking his feet near Walter's face, and he and Freddie would laugh and talk together, and ignore him.

Even without the noise they made, Walter couldn't sleep well at the Wrights'. The bed was fine, but it wasn't his bed, or his room, or his house. He'd tried to be brave the first two nights, sleeping alone on the small bed in the corner, but the house sounded, felt, smelled different than his own. He'd had several bad dreams, only to wake up in a strange place. Craving familiarity so badly it ached, he'd asked to share a bed with Jem, and now his brother was cross with him, and wouldn't even speak to him. Not that it changed much, Jem never liked spending time with Walter anyway.

And then, there was the farm. Auntie Di let him help with the house chores instead of the farm, after an incident with one of the cows had reduced him to tears. It involved more fear and embarrassment than pain, but Uncle Fred had stopped teasing him about it, and Walter liked being inside more anyway. Sometimes he'd help with the laundry, other times he would play with Jack. Though this cousin was far too young to hold a real conversation, it was nice to have a playmate who didn't look at him with scorn all the time.

Try as he might, he couldn't imagine himself away to any of his typical refuges: never ending beaches, magical forests, shimmering seas...the only place he could imagine was home, with his parents.

Walter pulled the covers up to his eyes and issued the same prayer he'd been sending every night: _Mommy, please come back._


	16. Tightening bonds and loosening up

Gilbert thought he was used to rough travelling. From choppy waters by ferry in his Redmond years, to driving the buggy on the lumpy, poorly finished roads leading to White Sands (he would drive even in the rain, or on the coldest of winter days), he'd gotten used to going places without comfort being a priority, or even an option.

This, though, was frankly ridiculous.

If only they could see him now, the reputable Dr. Blythe, honors student and top graduate in medical school, recipient of the Cooper prize, illegally hiding behind trunks on the 10:14, without having paid. He _should_ have been sitting at the very least in the second class compartment, but after he'd gotten...somewhat insistent with the incompetent and highly uncooperative ticket vendor, he'd been denied boarding. Garrison, who'd originally only planned to come as for as the train station with him, had ordered him to shut up and dragged him down the far side of the platform. Without so much as a glance left or right, Garrison hoisted himself up in the second to last car, leaving Gilbert to scramble up after him, into...

"...the luggage car?" What kind of trouble was he getting into now? "We're not even ticketed!"

"Yeah, well, you kind of blew your chance of booking a fare the regular way by assaulting that vendor."

"I did no such thing! _H_ _e_ had the gall to refuse me access to public transport-"

"They'd already called final boarding," Garrison pointed out needlessly: Gilbert had heard the conductor's shrill whistle. "You threatening him out of a job was bad enough, but when you started gesticulating with your fists, he was well within his rights to deny you access on any public transport."

The car lurched forward, and he did his best to stay on the shifty trunk he was using as a seat. "Yes, well, while _you_ may be used to breaking the law, I actually try to abide by it. Have you given any thought as to what happens when someone finds us here?"

Gilbert ground his teeth when Garrison had the nerve to roll his eyes at him. "Relax, will ya? No one will come in here until the next stop. We will pretend to be looking for our luggage, probably get a slap on the wrist, and get off to purchase tickets for the rest of the way. You can even pay retroactively, if you're worried about your sainthood being revoked."

He ignored the barb and scooted into a less uncomfortable position. His back ached, and his behind longed for something softer on which to sit. He frowned: this was what getting old felt like.

Misinterpreting the tension on his face, Garrison couldn't help but comment: "You take it all so seriously."

Gilbert turned the evilest, murderous look he could muster on him: "If you don't think my wife being on the run, possibly in danger, is serious, then what the devil are you doing here?"

"Oh, get off it. Of course I take _that_ seriously. Anne's welfare is my biggest concern right now. I meant _you._ You don't exactly suffer from too much humility, do you? Heck, if I wasn't as worried for her as you are right now, I'd say you were pathetic." Gilbert glared at him mutely. "I swear, man, if you don't stop forcing this 'holier than thou' attitude on yourself, you'll lose more than just your wife. Honestly, loosen up. You're liable to blow a gasket."

 _Gilbert was sent back in time, to his third year at Redmond. It was Friday, 4:27 o'clock, and he was walking across school grounds when grey clouds rolled in over the afternoon sky, and started dissolving into a light April shower. People scattered to find shelter, a few opened their umbrellas and hurried along. He didn't mind:he enjoyed the quality of the air when rain pattered down, the sensation of tiny drops misting his face._

 _Just as he approached Woodrow Hall, the drops grew heavier and started to come down a bit faster. He hurried into the building, shaking himself quickly before darting into classroom 1._

 _"Mr. Blythe," intoned Professor Leary with his dry, nasally voice. "I'm glad you were able to join us."_

 _"Professors," he addressed the committee, somewhat winded, with a quick nod. "Sorry I'm late." The old academics peered at him, unamused and unimpressed. Gilbert's good mood dissipated. He brushed some rain off his brow, fidgeting nervously, waiting for their meeting to begin._

 _After what felt like the longest twenty minutes of his life, he was finally dismissed. He couldn't wait to get out there, but right before he could make a hasty exit, the dean asked if they could have a quick word. "You did well today, Gilbert. You're a smart, hardworking chap - on paper, you're the ideal candidate for the Cooper prize. But son, you know how these things are: one has got to fit the image. There is a certain...decorum...to be observed."_

 _Puzzlement flooded Gilbert's senses, followed by embarrassment when he realized he was being criticized. "Now," the dean droned on, "I know that students are not required to wear jackets at all times. But if it rains on the day of an important meeting, do make sure that you are presentable. Carry an umbrella, at the very least. You will soon find that presentation is one of the keys of success."_

 _Gilbert thanked the dean as politely as he could and left the classroom, seeped of all good humour. To make matters worse, it was raining in earnest now. He braced himself and stepped out under the downpour._ _Even after nearly three years of life at Redmond, he couldn't get used to how incredibly uptight the people here were._ _For goodness' sake, it was just rain! Nothing more natural: good for crops, flowers, forests - even for the pitiful scraps of grass and shrubbery the university called gardens. How could there be any life without rain?_

 _Drops started coming down faster: he bent his head and quickened his pace. He didn't get why it was such a big deal. It wasn't as though he'd gone to the meeting completely disheveled or filthy. What did a few drops of water on his shirt matter? This was why the best players on the football team were country boys: everyone else was too worried about getting dirty or ripping their clothes. Back at home, no one ever cowered away from a bit of dirt. Farmers lived, ate and breathed earth, and when it rained, people were glad. He'd even had mud fights with his friends, on occasion._

 _As the drops stopped simply falling and started pelting him, he felt himself getting angry. Who were they, to feel so superior, anyway? he asked himself as he sloshed through a forming puddle. He understood the merits of scholarship, and the hierarchy of academia, but just because he ranked beneath them at the moment,_ _didn't mean he wasn't as worthy a human being._

 _This was what his father had warned him about, Gilbert admitted grudgingly, squinting through the raindrops. City folk were sharp and calculating, and they looked down people like them - country men, people of the land. Too much focus on abstract notions of money and power, nothing concrete to hold on to. When Gilbert had pointed out that there was nothing wrong with knowledge, and that without abstract professions, there would be no teachers or doctors, his father had merely shrugged. Every time they'd had this conversation, Gilbert's will had strengthened: he would prove his father wrong, show that he could belong in their world, earn a degree, and still be a good man._

 _A carriage came barrelling down the street, its huge wheels generating parallel waves of murky rainwater from the pavement up at least five feet high on the way. He went to step out of the way, but was blocked by the fence on his other side, and a wall of water crashed mercilessly over him, drenching him from head to toe._ _He blinked, stunned, as the carriage passed by without stopping. He swiped rain mixed with grit from his eyes and looked down at his sorry state: his trousers were coated in mud, and his good shirt and vest, once respectively white and blue, were now brown with street water._

 _Accepting that his clothes may simply be ruined beyond repair, and that he might have to buy new ones, he pushed his sopping wet hair from his face and went on his way. The rain was coming down now in solid sheets, but it hardly mattered: he couldn't possibly get any wetter than he already was. He was extremely cold, though, and was glad to step under the covered porch of Patty's Place. He pressed as much water as he could from his trouser legs, and shook rain from his arms. The door swung open as he ran his fingers through his hair, in a half-hearted attempted to make himself presentable._

 _"Oh, for crying out loud, you're drenched," scoffed Phil. "You shouldn't have come out in this deluge, you know. We figured you would stay home instead of trying to swim here."_

 _"Now you tell me," he grumbled, swallowing back an even less elegant retort. "Would you mind telling An-"_

 _"Gil! You made it!" Anne shoved her housemate out of the way and invited him in with a smile, and his anger vanished, just like that._

 _"I better not," he said sheepishly, blinking through raindrops dripping from his hair down his face, though he wanted nothing more. "Don't want to track muddy prints all over the floor."_

 _"It's fine, just take your shoes off first."_

 _At her insistence, he'd given in. After emptying gallons of water from his shoes, he was ushered into the kitchen, wrapped into a blanket and shoved onto a stool by the stove with strict instructions to get warm. Phil excused herself to resume her trigonometry assignment, and he was left alone in the kitchen with Anne. He used the corner of the blanket to dab at his face and hair while she poured the tea._

 _"Well, aren't you a sight," she teased lightly, pushing a teacup in his hands. He breathed in the steam, relishing the warmth in his shaking hands, and sighed. "Rough day?"_

 _That charm of hers never failed. One bat of her eyelashes, and words would start spewing out of his mouth with no control. He was already at a disadvantage, shoeless in the kitchen, shivering in wet, muddy clothes, feeling deeply humiliated and insulted, and so he spilled his guts. He told her all about the meeting, including the dean's personal notes at the end._

 _"Oh, Gil," she laughed gently. "You take yourself so seriously. Come on, we've always known snobbery was part of the deal here. All we have to do is pretend to fit the bill until we graduate. You're doing splendidly, you just have to smile through it until graduation which, may I remind you, is not so far away."_

 _"Fake it till we make it, eh?" he raised an eyebrow, already feeling marginally better. He sat back and sighed. "How did you get so good at it? You fit in the social circle here seamlessly, like you've always belonged. How is it so easy for you?"_

 _She snorted and gave him a look, as though the answer were perfectly obvious. "Gil, you goose, I've been faking it for years!" Before he could answer, she'd tousled his damp hair, ducking out of his reach when he tried to retaliate. Soon, both tea and propriety were forgotten as they chased each other around the kitchen table..._

Another sharp turn sent him flying forward, effectively propelling him back to the present time, and straight into Garrison's chest.

"Oy!" he shouted, throwing Gilbert on the floor. "When I said loosen up, I didn't mean it that way! I'm not into encounters of that type. And even if I was, your ugly mug wouldn't do it for me."

Gilbert sat up with a spark of mischief in his eye that had been until then long absent, and delivered a swift kick to the suitcase upon which Garrison was currently perching. Jack tumbled backwards, as did the suitcase which fell open, spilling it's contents (mostly clothes, by the look of it) on him. He was about to blast his travel companion for his sore bottom, when the door to the car clicked. He shoved the items in the case as fast as he could, fastening it shut just as the door was flung open.

"Ah, have we reached Montreal yet, then?" Jack asked casually, pretending not to notice the odd stares he was receiving from the two porters in uniform. Blythe cast his gaze to the floor, a blush spreading across his face. _Great, now that u_ _seless fool is going to get us both in trouble._ When the porters did nothing but keep staring from one man to the next, that coward actually started trembling. He made a mental note to ask Anne when they found her (if they ever found her) what she'd ever seen in such a poor excuse of a man.

The mystery was uncovered when the taller of the two porters walked up to him hesitantly, and gingerly pulled a piece of white cloth that had gotten stuck to his belt. It was only when Blythe's tremors turned into a series of snorts, inelegantly masked behind a faked coughing fit, that he recognized the lacy fabric for what it was: a very, VERY large piece of woman's underwear.

 **a/n: Please do not be alarmed, I don't intend to turn this story into a comedy! I just saw a moment that had the potential to become funny organically. Plus, with the last chapter erring on the heavy side, I chose to have this one be a bit of relief (though there are still some heavier implications here). Next chapter will (probably) be a bit more sober.**


	17. Going Back

Jack stood dumbly frozen, facing two strangers: one of whom was growing threateningly red in the face; the other, simply confused. He wished he could murder Blythe, who's shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter, and who was being remarkably unhelpful to the situation.

As the stouter, much angrier porter seemed about ready to read him the riot act, Jack scrambled to find an explanation - any excuse would do, to defend his current state. This would prove to be unnecessary, since Blythe had managed to get himself under control and turned to face the uniformed train employees.

"I'm so sorry, I must have lost track of my cousin, here. He does love looking at people's suitcases, don't you, Jack?" he said, as though addressing a toddler. "Really, it was my fault - I should have kept a closer watch on him. He just gets a bit agitated when we travel." Gilbert paused, probably to gauge the porters' credulity, then affected a look of sorrow. "He contracted rubeola as a young boy. There was nothing to do for it: he survived, but the brain damage is irreversible. His mother used to care for him, but when it became too much for her to bear - well, I couldn't have it on my conscience, knowing he had no one else in the world..."

He worried that he might have waxed it on a bit thick, when the taller and younger of the two workers' eyes softened. "I understand. My sister-" he gulped "she was never the same after the scarlet fever."

Gilbert nodded sympathetically. "I apologize for the trouble, I should have kept a closer watch on him. He's usually so well behaved - it's just that trains get him excited, and he has a hard time adjusting to new places."

The stouter, redder man stepped forward and laid a clammy hand on Jack's arm, offering a small, compassionate smile. "It's alright, now. But we do have to ask you to rejoin the passenger seating."

Gilbert redirected the conversation to practical matters, all whilst enjoying the steam escaping Garrison's ears: how could he replace the - uh, item his _cousin_ had _borrowed_ from the trunk that had popped open, and how he might retrieve the tickets he'd so inconveniently left in the very first car of the train when he'd realized Jack was missing. The porters were quick to wave away his concerns, and informed him on how to purchase a replacement ticket for the rest of their journey when they reached the large station of Montreal. Gilbert thanked them profusely, and bit his cheek to keep his laughter in check when the older employee gave Garrison a soft pat on the cheek before following his coworker to the next car up.

Jack waited, heat radiating from his face, until they were safely out of sight to lean in. "I - _h_ _ate -_ you," he ground out, receiving only chuckles in guise of reply. Furious, he jabbed his elbow sharply in Blythe's gut. The man _umph_ ed and wheezed satisfactorily, but the chuckling persisted.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Anne felt odd as she roamed down the path. Part of her was pleased - she had always liked this place. It sparkled with magic, and with the promise of new days with no mistakes in them (yet). Somehow, retracing footsteps she'd left here long ago rekindled some optimism in her.

At the same time, she was worried about running into someone who would recognize her. Familiar roads were one thing, but familiar faces were entirely another matter. Just to be sure, she pulled up her collar and tugged her had back to cover any hint of orange at the nape of her neck. One couldn't be too careful, even though there was no one outside, on account of the cold (and it being suppertime).

By the time she'd reached the house, it had started to snow again. Small white flakes twinkled down from thin air, it seemed, frosting the rooftops, decorating the fences like sugar crystals. The night was thankfully still, but even without windchill the cold in the air bit at her ears and nose. She hurried up to the front porch, then hesitated. Maybe it was best to have this reunion sheltered from prying eyes of curious neighbors. Circling around to the back door, her breath caught at what she glimpsed through the window: a warm fire glowing, the remains of a family meal being cleared by a woman who looked more worn and tired than Anne remembered.

The timing could be better, she reasoned, but now was no time to chicken out. Her other options were being recognized at the only inn in the area (a very long walk away yet), or to sleep in the barn. She dusted some snow from her shoulders and straightened herself, then quickly knocked before she could change her mind. There was commotion indoors, and it was two excruciatingly long minutes before anyone answered.

The woman blinked and stared vacantly for a beat, until recognition lit in her eyes. " _Anne?!_ "

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Two grown men walked down the avenue in silence. The sun had only just began rising, and their breaths came out in white puffs of steam before their faces. They'd been walking for nearly an hour, unable to hire a ride from the minuscule train station, and neither was suitably dressed for the cold or the snow.

"Tell me we're almost there," groaned Jack, his teeth chattering.

"Right around the corner from that yellow house," said Gilbert, nodding into the distance. "Look, whatever you say, be respectful around Miss Cuthbert. She's very fragile now. This has been a really rough time for her."

"For the thousandth time, _yes_ , I will be the very model of politeness. A regular altar boy."

"I mean it. She and Anne had a - very close relationship."

"Well, she was her adoptive mother, wasn't she?"

"It's complicated." Gilbert hated that he didn't quite know the answer to that. He settled for what he knew: "Look, as far as anyone could tell, Marilla's only ever shown her love for two people: her brother, Matthew, and Anne. Losing Matthew was hard enough, but Anne helped her through it."

There was nothing to say after that, so they walked on in silence until they'd reached Green Gables. Gilbert's fingers began to tingle: he would finally see Anne. Excitement flooded his veins as he thought of holding her. She'd been gone for so long, and he'd missed her the whole time, but now that she was near...

His heart beat wildly in his throat as he knocked at the front door. The Marilla who answered the door was barely recognizable - haggard and frail, she'd obviously lost some weight, and seemed to have aged about a decade. Her eyes widened, huge above her hollowed cheeks, glittering with hope when she registered who was standing on the doorstep.

"You found her?" she asked, cautiously excited. "My Anne! Gilbert, where is she?"

"You mean...she's not here?"


	18. Reunion and routine

Gilbert paced around with Walter in his arms, much like when he'd been a baby. His son of five was too heavy to do so comfortably now, but Gilbert shifted the boy so that the crook of his knees hooked better around his grip. Truth be told, he was enjoying the communion - bouncy curls tickling his neck, fast little heartbeat against his chest.

Green Gables' parlour was full to bursting: Marilla sat at the table, Fred Wright at her left and Rachel Lynde at her right. Next to Rachel sat Sarah Blythe, and Davy Keith crowded in between John Blythe and Jack Garrison. Diana Wright could be heard from the kitchen, she'd insisted that they all let her prepare the tea. Freddie and Jem seemed to be playing some game that involved blasting each other to smithereens with imaginary guns, leading them in and out of the room, with Anne Cordelia chasing after them, begging incessantly to be let in on their fun. Between those three, and little Jack Wright who kept crawling down from his father's lap to go climb on the rocking chair, chances of tripping over a child were heightened, but Gilbert managed.

When the bewildered inhabitants (plus a visiting, equally surprised Davy) had made it clear Anne wasn't, nor had been recently at Green Gables, he'd found himself at loose ends. He'd been so certain of finding her here...

So he'd had to call Diana while Davy fetched his parents, and all were reunited at last. His mother had hugged him painfully, but not as desperately as Walter upon seeing his father. One glance at him, and the boy had run up to him, grabbed his neck and cried. Even when the sobbing had faded into hiccups, the little hands at his nape refused to let go, so Gilbert participated in the conversation over Walter's curly head, in a way that was second nature to most parents.

"Of course, we'll have to be discreet about this," Rachel was saying when Diana came in with a loaded tray, expertly dodging her youngest son who was now crawling on the floor, and Sarah helped pour the tea. "We can't have the town talking about such matters," the eldest lady in attendance went on, "It's bad enough with the little they do know."

Fred hid a grin in his teacup, and Davy tried to pass his snort for a cough. Even John's moustache seemed to twitch - there was no telling how much of the Avonlea gossip had rooted down from Mrs. Rachel Lynde herself.

"If you haven't heard from the Blakes, we might try them next," suggested Davy. "Might have to take a trip up there."

"Thank you, Davy. Perhaps later," said Gilbert softly, declining Diana's mute offer for tea with a shake of his head and a sad smile. "If it's alright with you, I'd like to spend a few days here."

"Well of course, son," answered John, to whom the question had been directed. "You're always welcome home. As is Mr. Garrison." Sarah, delighted at the prospect of having Gilbert home, beamed at him with a tearful smile.

"You'll be both joining us for supper tonight - _Anne Cordelia Eloise Wright_ _, you put that down this instant! -_ I'm sure the children would be delighted." Gilbert smiled thankfully, and a sheepish Small Anne reluctantly set the piece of the Cuthberts' fine china back in the cupboard, where it belonged.

"Thank you. Thank you, all. I'm not sure how I - how we might have managed without your help." It wasn't until he'd said the words that he realized how true it was. He sighed, lulled by the sounds he hadn't known he'd ever miss: of his family and friends chatting, and of children playing. As Walter's arms slackened around his neck, Gilbert turned his head to breathe in his little boy scent, and deposit a feather light kiss on his temple.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Abner Thorpe was a simple country man, who enjoyed simple pleasures in life. He liked to wake up at 5 o'clock in the morning to go tend to the barn with his two dogs on his heels. He liked to come in for his usual breakfast of porridge, eggs, grilled bread and ham. He liked to work his fields until noon, break for lunch and a nap, then whistle for his dogs to follow him back out to the crops. After a good day of labor, Abner liked to sit on the porch (or if it was really too cold, by the fireplace) and smoke a cigarette before supper. He liked the way his sons ate with healthy appetites. After the evening meal, he liked to sip a mug of warm milk with honey, then go to bed early.

In short, Abner Thorpe liked routine. What he did _not_ like was the strange woman sitting across him at the dinner table, the one who'd disrupted his daily schedule. Arriving yesterday right as he was getting ready to sit down was bad enough, but then his wife had made him move his trapping gear from the storage room so that they could unroll the spare mattress.

The stranger in their house hadn't shown up for breakfast or noon, but she'd taken a place at their table for the early evening meal. Had barely eaten anything - which was good, he decided, because his boys needed their strength. Still, he wondered how long he'd have to keep his gear out in the barn - he didn't want it to rust.

"You go ahead," said his wife as he got ready to turn in for the day. "I'll join you later."

Why she was telling him this, was beyond him. It had been two years since they'd last touched each other in bed. He didn't mind: three boys was enough. But there she stood, looking at him the way she did when she wanted him to say something. What it was, he didn't know.

"Alright. I'm going to bed."

Wrong thing to say - her eyes narrowed, and she sighed in undisguised disappointment before leaving the room in a huff. Abner shrugged to himself: sometimes, he thought he'd never really understand what went through Josie's mind.


	19. Misconceptions and Mastications

Two women sat at the kitchen table by the window. Outside, snow was falling so lightly, it was barely noticeable, but it made the air glimmer, shining discreetly against the light gray sky. Neither of them took any notice. One was sipping the tea she'd been served in a plain, brown mug, keeping her gaze on the small, round table's wooden surface.

The other stirred her tea, stopping when she felt the honey had dissolved. "So, what are you doing here?" she asked, not exactly unwelcoming, but with a certain curiosity.

"I needed a place to stay, and heard that you'd moved to the area."

"You just happened to be in the neighborhood?"

The skeptical reply was delivered with Josie's signature sarcastic tone. Anne felt almost comforted to hear it again. "No. I was on my way to Green Gables, but I wasn't ready to face anyone, so I came here."

"Logically. Because we're such great friends."

"Actually, because we're not." Anne had her full attention now. "I can't be around anyone who cares. People in Avonlea talk. They say they care, but then they talk...I don't want to be around them. I couldn't handle their pity."

Josie arched an eyebrow. "You've come to the right place, then."

Anne nodded. "I never doubted it."

There was a terse silence, then they both burst into giggles simultaneously. With some of the tension gone, Anne found herself experiencing an odd moment of camaraderie with the girl whom she had never befriended. Emboldened, she found herself speaking. "Gilbert and I are having some - issues."

"I take it you two got married, then?"

"You didn't know?"

"We don't make it to town." Josie shrugged and sipped some more tea. "I've been out of the gossip circuit for a while."

"But this was almost ten years ago!"

"You really haven't changed, have you? The whole world doesn't revolve around you, Anne Shirley. Blythe, whatever." She hadn't yelled, but there was something dangerous in her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

Josie stopped her with a sharp gesture of her hand and a shake of her head. "I met Abner when I was twenty. My parents didn't approve, but I wasn't going to let them rule my life anymore. It took us two years to save up enough money to buy some land of our own. Still wish we could have moved off the Island, or at least further away, but we didn't want to wait."

By her tone, Anne guessed that the decision had been impulsive, possibly even regretted. The woman in front of her did seem tired and worn, but there was a radiance of energy in her face. There was also a softness that she'd never seen on younger Josie's traits - perhaps because it hadn't been given the opportunity to manifest itself.

"You seem happy," mused Anne, the words floating from her mouth with a dreamy cadence.

Josie blinked. "Of course we are. We have our home, the farm is doing well. We want for nothing."

"No, I meant _you. You_ seem happy. Motherhood suits you well." Anne intended this as a genuine remark, not a compliment, but it didn't stop Josie from beaming with a bright, proud smile.

"I was blessed with three strapping, good looking boys. It's the best thing Ab's ever given me." Seeing the look on Anne's face, she set her mug down. "He doesn't look like much now - trust me, back then, he had more hair and less gut - and I know he's pigheaded and kind of dull. But when we started our life together, he promised me a simple life. And he's made good on that promise."

"And that's what you want?" Anne was unable to keep her eyes from widening in surprise.

"Lord, yes," Josie sighed. "Not having to worry about what comes next, about status, or people nosing around our business...it's a happiness I hadn't considered possible at a time. Now, I couldn't live any other way."

And the surprises just kept coming. "Wow. All this time, I'd thought you aspired for the high life," admitted Anne. "You used to talk of marrying rich, acquiring estates, attending balls..."

"That would be my mother talking," clarified Josie, her nose wrinkled in distaste. "I hated socializing, never was good at it, unlike you. Oh, don't try that fake modesty on me, you never fooled me. You knew how to play people. How to say the right things, and make friends...even when you did wrong, everyone kept on raving about how wonderful you were."

It was Anne's turn to blink. "I did have you fooled, then. I had no idea how to act when I arrived in Avonlea: I knew I wouldn't be considered acceptable as I was, so I tried to be someone people would find admirable. It never worked, anyway - I only succeeded in getting into an endless amount of scraps. And I know how people talked about me: horrid redhead with a temper to match, dirty orphan with questionable past. A silly girl with a big mouth who would grow up all wrong - if ever."

"You don't think they talked about me, too? 'That mean girl, the uglier sister, Plumpy Pye'?" She huffed and looked out the window. "See, this is why we don't go to Avonlea. When it's time for the trades and markets, we go to Kensington, then drive back here, where it's just us..." A spark of understanding lit her eyes. "But _you're_ living the social life, aren't you? Married to a doctor - you'd be a pillar of the community by default."

"I thought you hadn't kept up with the gossip," said Anne with an elegant arch of her eyebrow. "How would you know Gilbert's a doctor?"

Josie's expression now was the smug grin Anne remembered from their schooldays. "Gertie writes me on occasion, she keeps me informed when something juicy happens. You irked me when you assumed that I'd know all about your life, so I lied. So, what happened? You got married, and when you started having babies he stopped being the prince you used to fantasize about, and now you're stuck being the doctor's wife, with everyone scrutinizing your every move?"

Anne shook her head. "He never stopped being a prince. Gilbert's always been wonderful. I just can't pretend to be who he needs me to be anymore." She paused to drink some cooled tea, considering how honest she should be. Well, she'd come this far..."Did Gertie tell you I'd refused the first time Gilbert proposed?" Josie's astonished expression confirmed that she had not been in the know. "Well, I did. Twice. The third time he asked, he spoke of a simple life, too. A small house somewhere remote, serving a modest community. He made it sound so appealing...Well, you know how he is. He excels at everything he does. During his medical studies, he started getting a lot of attention from important people: professors, resident doctors. He declined several big hospital positions. But through the success of his publications (and his reputation from medical school, I suppose), he got all these invitations to attend events, join associations..."

"How bad was it?" asked Josie, morbidly intrigued. With the new revelation of Josie's distaste for high society, Anne felt she would understand.

"The worst of the old Island biddies couldn't compare. Hypocrites slapping each other's backs in congratulations, and stabbing each other from behind. There we were, a farmer's son and an orphan - you can imagine what easy targets we were. But, as always, Gilbert shone. He thrived; I was in over my head. It got to the point where I simply couldn't play the part, that I couldn't pretend to be that person he needed me to be, anymore." The tea was cold now, but she drained her mug anyway.

"I'm not buying it."

Shock had Anne frozen for a second. "Excuse me?"

"This whole 'golden boy' thing. Love has made you blind, hasn't it? Look, I'll be the first to agree that Gilbert Blythe has his charms, but the man's no saint. He was obnoxious, cocky and an insufferable know-it-all. In that respect, you're actually a wonderful match."

Anne didn't reply, didn't move a muscle. Josie went on. "He's not perfect, Anne. Far from it. He's not, and neither are you. Whatever 'issues' you're having, I highly doubt that he's blameless."

Elephant-like stomping in the hallway indicated that the workday was over. Dinner preparations were rushed through (their talk had taken longer than anticipated), but soon they were all seated around the dining table. Anne found herself lost in thought, only half-seeing the spectacle that had fascinated her the first few times. She'd never witnessed anyone devour a meal with such abandon, not even at the orphanage: Josie's offspring had a definite talent for making food disappear, something they indubitably inherited from their father.

Instead of being mesmerized by how much steak Ezekiel Thorpe, the middle child, could swallow without having to chew, Anne kept going back to something Josie had said earlier. Unwittingly, her former schoolmate had highlighted something rather obvious.

 _Love has made you blind, hasn't it?_

Implying that there was love.

That she loved Gilbert.

And she still did.


	20. Past revisited and creating the future

"You're sure you want to do this?" asked Josie. Anne nodded. "And you know what might happen, and you're prepared for the consequences, regardless of what they might be?" Another nod. "Well, then. We'll take the cart after Abner and the boys have their breakfast."

"Thank you for doing this, Josie."

The blonde woman's gaze pierced Anne. "Are you really sure about this? You look sick."

"I am sure." Anne gulped. "But it feels awful. Disloyal." She looked up to see Josie's unimpressed expression.

"Well, it kind of is," she quipped. "But you said you couldn't pretend to be someone you're not anymore. So, maybe it's time you start acting like who you are. Make choices of your own."

"Like you did?" Anne tried for a raised eyebrow, but her attempts at sarcasm were wasted on Josie.

"I've always acted like myself."

"Your self was a mean, spoilt brat."

"And yours is selfless and kind?" Anne sighed in response, and Josie smirked victoriously. "Stop trying to deflect. Are you ready to drop the act, or not?"

Predictably, the redhead could never resist a challenge. Especially one she'd set herself. "Yes, I am. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," concurred Josie, and nodded goodnight before leaving for her own room, where her husband had crawled into bed.

"Is she leaving tomorrow?" Abner grumbled after blowing out his candle.

"Yes."

"I'll bring my trapping gear back in after noontime, then."

"No."

He frowned, and propped himself up on his elbow.

"No?" He could barely make out her shape in the dark, but he could feel her rustling the sheets.

"Wait until Friday. She might come back." Josie heard him sigh exasperatedly, and he rolled over toward the wall.

"Gear's gonna rust," he commented under his breath after two beats of silence.

"Your gear will be fine for another day or two."

"I'm not buying me new gear."

"You won't have to."

Four more beats of silence, then - good lord, he started, was that her hand on his arm? The touch was deliberate: a soft caress of the fingers, from the crook of his elbow to his bicep, and back down, a light squeeze of his skin. Curious, he turned to face her dark profile.

"I'm glad I married you," she whispered, and darned if he knew what to make of that.

"Get to sleep. Don't want you crashing the cart tomorrow," Abner commanded gruffly before turning around, oblivious to the gleeful grin illuminating his wife's face.

2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S2S

Sarah Blythe watched Jem drink deeply from his cup of milk. Having exhausted himself by running around in the yard, the boy had barged in the kitchen and asked whether he could have a snack, throwing a winning smile her way for good measure. Well, when had Granny ever been able to refuse him anything? Seeing as they would be heading for the Wrights in less than an hour, she'd let him have some fruit and a bit of bread, served with a tall, cool drink. The freckled boy had grinned, and tucked right in.

While on the outside he was a carbon copy of his mother, Sarah saw her own son mirrored on the inside: a tender core of love and sensitivity swirled together, surrounded by a stoic, happy-go-lucky demeanor. Playful and optimistic, yet so concerned for others' welfare, and also an enormous need to be liked by all. An easy need to satisfy, because neither Jem nor Gilbert had ever had any difficulty making friends.

Except...well, there were memories of a thirteen year old boy dragging his feet home with his head carefully turned away from her, entering quietly through the backdoor...

 _"How was your day at school, sweetheart?" she asked, her voice strained and terse._

 _He gulped, averting his gaze. "It was fine, Ma. I told Dad I'd mend the wiring on the chicken coop-"_

 _"The chickens can wait. Is there anything you care to tell me?" His posture, shoulders slumped guiltily, facing the floor, said it all._

 _"Gilbert."_ _The sharp command made him look up, but he didn't turn to face her. She took his chin and turned him to face her - and promptly gasped. "What happened?" Not waiting for an answer, she fetched a rag to toss in a bowl of cool water._ _"Sit."_

 _Complying immediately, he folded his tall (ever growing) frame into the closest chair. Sarah set the bowl on the table and took a seat in front of him, tamping down the urge to cajole him. She wrung out the cloth with practiced efficiency, and pressed it to his right eye, which was swollen, and bruising colorfully. "Tilt your head back," she instructed when some water dribbled down his neck. Pliant as a kitten, her son obeyed and stared at the ceiling, waiting for the inevitable scolding. Deep down, she knew he was a good kid. So, he got into a little trouble: boys would be boys._

 _"Now, are you ready to talk?" Coaxed through her gentle tone, she could see him steeling himself for a conversation which he did not want to have._

 _"Me and Charlie were just having an- er, argument."_

 _"With your fists?"_

 _"He started it."_

 _"And you riposted?" She didn't miss the way his jaw tensed. "Gilbert, it's only your third day back in school! You said you were looking forward to seeing your friends, and you come home like THIS! And to make matters worse," she went on, shame flooding her face, "I had to hear from Mrs. Andrews that a girl hit you and screamed at you_ in the classroom _! What is going on?"_

 _A drop ran down his other cheek, and his face crumbled. "I hate it here," he said through trembling lips, his voice squeaking with adolescence. "I don't want to go to school anymore."_

 _"Oh, sweetie," Sarah sighed, wiping at his tears. "It's alright. Talk to me."_

 _Through sniffles and a fresh rag on his eye, he gave her an abbreviated and heavily censored account of what would later be known as the slate incident. "I tried to tell Mr. Phillips it was my fault, and I apologized to Anne, but they wouldn't listen," he finished woefully._

 _Oh, her poor boy. He'd been terribly isolated during a period in which children needed their peers in order to develop, to take that step towards adulthood. While caring for his father had matured Gilbert beyond his years, his social growth had been momentarily stunted. Guilt that she hadn't been there for him ate at her, even though she knew she'd had no choice in the matter._

 _"Charlie was making fun of me today at recess" he recounted. "He was saying that only sissies let girls hit them - even though she didn't, it was a slate - and that I was a coward for not striking back. I told him I would never strike a girl, and asked him what he'd do about it. And, well...he punched, and I punched back."_

 _Kids these days. Sarah shook her head. "How badly did you punch back? Will I have to pay a visit to Mrs. Sloane?"_

 _Gilbert shook his head. "I'll go apologize."_

 _So, maybe not as stunted as she thought. Taken aback by his initiative, she smiled. "You do that. Let me put some peppermint oil on your eye first."_

 _"Alright, Mama." And he'd submitted himself to her ministrations, gazing up at her through his good eye._

 _"Can I go now?"_

Sarah snapped out of her reminiscence to find Jem staring at her expectantly, sitting at the very spot his father had occupied half a lifetime ago.

"What was that, sweetheart?"

"Can I go now?" the orange-headed boy with the milk mustache asked again, eager to go outside and spend more of his endless supply of energy.

" _May_ I go, not _can._ "

" _May_ I go?" he repeated, adding "Please?" as an afterthought. His efforts earned him a warm smile from his Granny.

"You may. And keep those trousers clean, you won't have time to change before supper," she called in vain as the boy scampered off, dodging the entering form of Mr. Garrison at the last minute.

"Lively little fellow," commented the man. "Never tires of running around, does he?"

Sarah Blythe shook her head. "He takes after his father. And his mother. She used to spend more time outdoors than in."

"Anne? Really?"

Something irked her about his fascination. If she were to be honest, something irked her about the man, period. Perhaps it was the way this stranger came into their lives, claiming to know Anne. To what level, it was unclear. All she knew was that Gilbert tensed up when Mr. Garrison brought _her_ up, yet he refused to send him away, or even to put him up at the inn in White Sands.

"Yes," Sarah simply said. "She and Gilbert used to go running about all over the place. Like children, they were."

"Hard to imagine, that."

Sarah found herself on the verge of delivering a biting reply, when the door flung open again.

"Granny, Grandad says it's time to go!"

"Alright, Jem, go get your brother." Saved from losing her composure by her grandson, Sarah Blythe resolved to tell Gilbert her honest opinion of Mr. Garrison. The man needed to go, or she might find herself nursing another black eye.


	21. Greetings and farewells

Anne stood before the door, heart racing, knees shaking, face heating. A mess of conflicting emotions swirled around her, but it was too late to turn back now.

The woman who answered the door was old and and haggard. New worry lines creased her face, and all her features seemed to sag downwards. The tight, severe bun on top of her head had more silver to it than it used to, and her posture had a newfound weariness to it. But when her eyes registered Anne's form, they almost lit up (though not quite). She might have dulled vision, but she would know that silhouette even if she'd gone completely blind.

"I'm sorry," was all Anne managed through the tears strangling her.

The flash of recognition was followed by elation, but hysterical anger and fear came as swiftly as her initial joy. The hand acted of its own accord, and contacted the pale cheek with such force, the slap was heard for miles around. Even before shock registered in the poor girl's eyes, grief engulfed her. She caressed Anne's skin with unparalleled tenderness, drinking in the essence of the person she loved more than life, then pulling her into a desperate embrace against her bosom. Once her arms folded around her, Marilla found she could not let go. Not that it would have done any good, because Anne was grasping her just as tightly.

"Don't you - ever - do that again," Marilla uttered, her voice quaking with relieved sobs. "You hear? Never. You can never do this again."

Anne nodded, safely cocooned in her adoptive mother's arms, breathing in the scent of the woman who'd fed and clothed her; who'd praised her accomplishments, scolded her for misbehaving, nursed her when she was sick. Bony, comforting hands stroked her back the way they used to when she was little, and Anne found it quite impossible to speak or move.

Through their sobs and wordless apologies, neither of them noticed Davy Keith riding away on the black mare, or Rachel Lynde shedding a tear of her own on the front porch.

dpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpdpd

Gilbert had been so nervous on his first day teaching at White Sands, his hands shook as badly as his knees when he wrote his name on the blackboard. He hadn't banked on nerves coming into play today - hadn't fathomed how unprepared he'd been until he was facing a classroom full of children, a little over twenty faces staring at him, waiting for him to say something. His faculties had abandoned him, his mind had gone blank, and to this day, he still had no idea how he'd managed to get through the entire schoolday.

The day Gilbert had admitted his ambition of being a doctor to his father, he had been extremelynervous. His throat had constricted in such a way that he'd had to choose between speaking or breathing, and as the words tumbled clumsily from his mouth, he had started formulating a plan for enduring John Blythe's wrath and disappointment. This had proved to be quite unnecessary, but it had still taken his heart a few hours to find its natural rhythm after that particular talk.

During his second year of medical school, Dr. Karlsen had pointed at the surgical needle and thread, giving him the opportunity to close up a wound, Gilbert had been eager to demonstrate his abilities - that was, until he saw the patient's chest rise and fall rhythmically. The only actual practice Gilbert had had sewing humans up till now had involved cadavers - now faced with a real live, breathing body, his bravado had flown out the window. His trademark meticulous sutures were replaced with stitches that may as well have been crocheted by a 90 year old arthritic grandmother, in the dark. Sweating under the bright hospital lights, Gilbert had said a silent prayer with every puncture of the needle; as soon as he'd been dismissed, he'd hurried out of the building and been humiliatingly sick in the bushes, in broad daylight. He had even let his Lamb brothers pour a shot of brandy down his throat later that night, when he couldn't stop shaking.

Now, as he rode the horse Davy had lent him up to the Green Gables barn, Gilbert swore he'd never felt more nervous in his life. His entire being vibrated with energy, and his mind raced so incoherently, he couldn't formulate a single intelligent thought. All he could process was: _Anne is here_.

 _You're going to see Anne._

 _She's going to see you._

 _She's here._ Anne _is here._

He secured the horse, not bothering to unsaddle her (Davy would be heading over with the others in a bit, he'd see to it) and walked up the house in a trance. He could feel his pulse in his thighs and in his face as he knocked and pushed open the screen door.

"Hello?" There was no one in the kitchen, no one in the parlor. He floated upstairs, and heard muted voices emanating from the bedroom Jem and Walter occupied during visits. The door was half open - he pushed it all the way open, and saw her sitting on the bed, Marilla's arm around her shoulders. She looked up, and his heart throbbed in his ears. God, his wife was beautiful.

In a romance novel, he would have knelt in front of her and professed his undying love, begged her to have him back; she would have swooned into his arms and gazed lovingly into his eyes; they would have fused into a passionate kiss.

But real life had a more awkward way of playing out. As he approached her on weak legs, his shoe caught the edge of the carpet, and he just missed falling on his face. Anne moved toward him as he gained his balance, and the arm he flailed about in order to stay upright accidentally grazed her. Or, to be more specific: three fingers of his left hand frisked her breast. A husband and a doctor, Gilbert Blythe was not easily embarrassed by physical contact: however, Anne's electric gasp made blood rush to his face (and, well, other places). He apologized hastily, and Marilla made a sound that could have been disapproval or amusement (or possibly both).

"I'll be downstairs if you need me," she said, depositing a cheek at Anne's temple. She stood and left the room, patting Gilbert's shoulder in a rare display of affection on her way out. The door clicked shut quietly, and then it was just the two of them.

It was an eternity before either of them spoke. All the things Gilbert had wanted to say - the accusations he'd wanted to throw, the curses he'd wanted to shout, the explanations he'd wanted to demand - all seemed irrelevant all of the sudden.

"You left," he blundered. It wasn't on the list of things he'd intended to say - not even close. "Why did you leave?"

Tears flooded her eyes. "Because I had to. I needed to leave...I was losing myself. Gil, I haven't been - right - in the head, for a long time."

He nodded as though he'd known all along. "And now?"

Her tearful attempts to smile tugged at his heartstrings. "Marilla has forgiven me - I hope you will, too. The boys..." A shadow passed on her face. "I'll do whatever it takes. How they must hate me...and you, as well."

"I don't hate you. I never have." He'd spoken without thinking, but the second the words came out, he knew they were the absolute truth. As much as he might have resented her, he'd never hated her. "Come home, darling. We need you. I need you."

Regret leaked from her eyes, rolling in fat drops down her pale cheeks. "I'm sorry, Gil. I can't."

Gilbert fell to his knees. He was dying: he was certain of it. The cramp around his heart, shortness of breath, blurred vision...his wife screamed his name in terror, confirming that he was indeed going into cardiac arrest.

"Gilbert!" she repeated, panic lacing the authoritative tone of her voice. "Breathe, Gil. Slower, from here." Her hand placed on his abdomen, and he was surprised that her touch didn't incinerate him. "In deeply - out. Again: in... There you go." She coached him until his head stopped swimming. She must have shifted him, because he was now sitting with his back against the bed. Her hand still above his stomach, the other rubbed his shoulder, her big, greenish eyes fixed on him with concern. Anne, his gorgeous wife - who wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

"Is it Jack?" he wheezed, his lungs functioning painfully.

"Jack?!" she started, surprised. He didn't detect any guilt in the gesture - then again, when had he ever been the expert?

"You love him, right? And now, he's come to sweep you off your feet." With the return of his senses, he suddenly felt exhausted. He leaned his head back on the edge of the bed. "Rescue you from a...lifetime wasted with me."

"Gilbert, you're not making any sense. Did you have a seizure?"

"Garrison." He opened an eye to gauge her reaction. "Rugged good looks, handsome grin, dead gone on you. Ring a bell?" So far, she only seemed confused. Had he caught her red handed? He didn't want to know - but he had to, for his sons' sake as much as his own. "Well, he's here. Followed me, supposedly to keep me out of trouble. Should have known."

Anne gaped at him. "You're jealous."

"So, you're admitting it?"

"You are unbelievable! Are you accusing me of - having _romantic_ _feelings_ \- for someone else?"

He went back to staring at the ceiling. "Well, why not? Goodness knows you haven't looked at me that way since...ah, it's been years, at least."

"I might have stopped showing it," she said quietly, "but I never stopped feeling it. To be fair, you haven't been around much to notice." She sighed, and he felt a weight lift from his chest. He laid his clammy hand over hers, holding her limply. "Gil, I have no romantic sentiments towards Jack. I never had. He was - is - a good friend, and helped me when I was in need. That's all. But I can't come home with you, and have everything be like it was. I can't go back to us the way we were. Please understand."

Through his fear, and pain, and frustration, he saw what she was trying to convey. "Anne, I can't lose you. I wish I were noble and selfless enough to let you go, but I simply cannot. This being said, I know what you mean." A lone tear spilled down the side of his face. "What if - what if it weren't the way it was then? I can change. I'd do anything." He pretended not to notice how pathetically desperate he sounded, and hoped she would as well.

"I need to change, too, Gil. There are some things I have to sort out, of my own...I will need some time. And some space."

It wasn't an outright 'farewell'. It sounded more like a 'see you later...perhaps.' He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Will you come back, after that?"

Anne nodded. "Yes."

His grip on her hand tightened. "Promise me."

"I promise, Gil. Whatever lies ahead, I will never leave you, nor the boys, forever. I just need time."

He nodded and exhaled heavily. "Then take all the time you need. And when you're ready, we'll be waiting for you."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 **And thus ends the second installment of the saga! The story continues: (title pending) will complete the trilogy. There may be short spin offs or segments published separately, but for now, my goal is to bring the story arch a resolution.**

 **In the meanwhile, THANK YOU to everyone who has been reading! Your reviews and criticism are worth gold. I am not brave enough to join any forums quite yet (but thank you for the invitations) so for the present, I will express my gratitude here. XOXOXO, mavors4986**


End file.
